Till it Hurts
by Heidi Patacki
Summary: Kick and Gunther are fifteen now, old enough to get in real trouble for some of their stunts, and old enough for other things, too. Kick/Gunther, slash
1. Chapter 1

What stunts were to Kick, cuddling was to Gunther. He was always on the lookout for something to cuddle: animals, stuffed toys, pillows, and, increasingly, annoyingly, Kick.

"Gunther, what is happening right now?"

"Hmm?"

They were on the couch at Kick's house, watching some footage from the previous weekend, when Kick jumped Agatha Gorge on his bike, with the help of a modified diving board that they stole from the neighborhood pool. Kick spent a week at the Mellowbrook Juvenile Detention Center for the theft of the diving board, which was why he was only now seeing the tape. It was hard to concentrate on his awesomeness with Gunther leaning against him, hugging his arm and resting his chin on Kick's shoulder.

"We're watching the video," Gunther said when Kick just stared, waiting for Gunther to realize what he was doing. "Do you need a bathroom break or something?" His grip on Kick's arm actually tightened as he asked. "Want me to pause it?"

"Gunther." Kick looked down at the death grip Gunther had on his bicep.

"Wha – oh." Gunther laughed self consciously. "Sorry." His fingers uncurled from Kick's arm one at a time. He lifted his chin from Kick's shoulder and continued sitting a little too close for comfort, but Kick could deal with that. The principle of the thing didn't bother him. Gunther was Gunther; he'd always been grabby and eager to snuggle the shit out of life. It was just beginning to become physically uncomfortable to have Gunther all over him all the time. They were fifteen, old enough to prosecute for the misdemeanors that were necessary for most of Kick's stunts, and Gunther had gotten huge over the summer, six feet tall and two hundred pounds of fat that was actually transitioning into muscle in some areas. Kick had gotten stronger, too, but only in his arms, and only because he obsessively worked out. He was still short, barely clearing five four, and everything but his ass was smaller than he'd like it to be. He couldn't bear the weight of Gunther, not just physically, but because Gunther's considerable bulk was another cruel reminder that Kick was a shrimp compared to him and most of the other guys at school.

"I just missed you is all!" Gunther blurted after a few minutes of awkward silence, his meaty shoulder still pressed to Kick's. He grabbed Kick's arm again and squeezed. "Kick – a whole week! They've never – they'd never put you away for that long before."

"Yeah, well." Kick sighed and kept his eyes on the screen. Gunther sounded a little broken up, and Kick wasn't in the mood for a cry fest. That week wasn't exactly a walk in the park for him, either. If he was a shrimp at school he was a fucking krill in juvey. He longed for the days when he would just get scolded when his stunts went awry or involved stolen property.

"Maybe we should tone it down for awhile," Gunther said, and he snuggled closer, his arm sliding across Kick's chest. "You know, just, lay low until the cops stop keeping such close tabs on what you do?"

"Maybe you should tone down the physical affection, buddy," Kick said, still staring at the video. It was a lame stunt, not worth the jail time, and the last thing he wanted was to let it live as his legacy for any longer than necessary. Gunther released his arm and moved away, his fat hands dropping between his knees.

"Sorry, Kick," he said, so pathetically that Kick groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. He scooted over to Gunther and put an arm around him.

"It's alright," he said. "I'm just in a shitty mood. Forget it."

"The video didn't turn out that good," Gunther said, sniffling. "My fault."

"No, it's not the video. It's the stunt – it's too basic, you know? I mean, the Gorge is big, yeah, but it's so one note. I need to come up with something really outrageous, something brand new."

"It's got to be legal, though, okay?" Gunther said. He grabbed Kick's hand and pressed it between both of his, which were sweaty and overly warm, like always. "Please, Kick? I can't watch them lock you up again, I worry about you the whole time –"

"Gunther." Kick groaned. Like he wasn't getting enough of this from his parents. "It's just juvey hall –"

"Kick, you've got a black eye!"

"Yeah, for the eight millionth time in my life. You see me with black eyes all the time."

"But it's different when someone – hit you."

Kick pulled his hand free from Gunther's sweltering grip and touched the tender skin around his left eye. It was starting to go green around the edges, the purple fading to dark pink: progress. He was being a smart ass when he got punched, asking for it. He just couldn't keep his mouth shut when someone taunted him for being small, even if they were a massive skinhead criminal in training.

"In three months you'll be sixteen," Gunther said, practically hyperventilating. He recaptured Kick's hand, and Kick was too tired to pull away, or to shrug Gunther's arm off when he tugged Kick against him. "You know what that means," Gunther said, squeezing him.

"Yeah." Kick grinned at him. "I'll get my driver's license. That's a whole new world of stunts, my man."

"Kick!" Gunther shook him by the shoulders. "That's not what I meant and you know it. If you get booked for vandalism or something they could wait three months to hold your trial and sentence you as a sixteen-year-old! That means they send you to _Harrisville_, with the sixteen and up offenders. Sixteen and _up_, Kick!" Gunther shook him harder, making him feel like his brain was rattling around inside his skull. Kick scowled at him.

"You're sitting around worrying about this?" he said. "Working it out? Don't waste your time. I'm not getting caught again."

"Kick, you're good at a lot of things, but not getting caught isn't one of them."

"I'm not good at a lot of things," Kick said. "I'm good at one thing: stunts. So don't tell me I need to 'lay low,' okay? You know me. I don't do laying low."

"You're so stubborn," Gunther said, mumbling. He let go of Kick and moved to the far end of the couch, scowling at the video as it played out on the screen. It was the slow motion edit of Kick flying over the Gorge on his bike, some Top 40 song that Gunther was into this week playing over the video. Kick watched himself fly, feeling like he was in free fall.

"I can't deal with you trying to sabotage me, too," Kick said while Gunther stewed in silence. Lately everyone was out to get him. His parents were full of threats about sending him away to military school, and though he'd learned that they didn't mean it, he could see the way that they looked at him changing. They used to tolerate his stunts, accepting this as part of his personality. Then the police got involved.

"I'm not trying to sabotage you," Gunther said, and when their eyes met his expression was soft and forgiving again. Gunther never stayed mad for long, at least not where Kick was concerned. "I'm trying to – to _save_ you."

"Save me?" Kick scoffed. "I don't need saving. What are you talking about?"

"We're not kids anymore, Kick! There's, like, consequences for our actions! And I know you still think you're invincible, but I – I've grown up, okay? I always worried about you, but this is different. When you go away, when you come back – _you're_ different."

"You're crazy," Kick said, and his cheeks got hot, because he knew Gunther was right. Even Brianna had noticed. This was his fifth trip to Mellowbrook juvey, and he got a little angrier every time he returned, a little more determined to break his promises about staying in line.

"I'm not crazy," Gunther said. He sounded so sad, and Kick could feel it in his chest, like a bite Gunther had taken out of him. "I know you better than anyone, and I know you'll never stop jumping over gorges, but you can't just do whatever you want anymore. People in town – some people – they want you to learn a lesson, you know, because you smashed through their garage doors or crash landed on their rose bushes, and maybe they thought it was cute when you were a kid, but –"

"You know what?" Kick stood from the sofa, his hands curling into his fists. "I think you're the one who wants me to lay low and tone it down. This isn't about the town, or the police, or my parents – those are just your excuses. You don't want to be a part of this anymore. You're afraid you're going to get in trouble."

"What!" Gunther's eyes went huge. "No! I never, it's not that –"

"Admit it, Gunther!" Kick jabbed his finger in Gunther's face, wishing he could get himself to shut up, but he was pissed off and Gunther was pushing all his buttons. "You're just humoring me. You'd be perfectly happy if I packed everything up and never did a stunt again, if I just sat here on the couch and let you pet me like I'm your fucking lap dog or something!"

They were both speechless in the wake of Kick's outburst, Kick panting his breath out and Gunther staring at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. When he stood, Kick actually thought he might punch him, but he just turned and walked toward the front door without a word.

"Gunther, no, wait."

"No, I –" Gunther's voice was very small, as if someone had stepped on it. Kick ran forward to stop him, grabbing his arm. Gunther could have brushed him away like a gnat, but he stopped in his tracks, staring at the ground.

"Hey, I'm sorry," Kick said, holding Gunther's arm with both hands. "I didn't mean that –"

"I know," Gunther said glumly, his eyes still on the ground. Kick tugged on his arm, trying to get him to look up.

"I'm just frustrated," Kick said. "I just need – a new stunt. Something really inspired. Help me think of something, alright? You can be, like, my legal advisor. You can make sure I won't get arrested." He wasn't sure how this would work, because 'legal' stunts were about as exciting as censored pornography, but he wasn't going to let Gunther spend another night worrying about what would happen if Kick got sent to real prison. Gunther smiled when he looked up, but there was sadness in it, and Kick knew Gunther wasn't buying his sudden interest in legality.

"Okay, Kick," Gunther said. His voice was still half-broken, small. "I'll help you think of something."

"I'm thinking water," Kick said. His own voice was kind of pinched, which was annoying. "Maybe water and fire combined."

"Fire?" Gunther sighed and closed his eyes. "Kick –"

"Okay, maybe not fire, but water, definitely." Kick stepped backward, pulling Gunther along with him. "Come on," he said. "Let's watch the rest of the video."

"I don't mean to be touching you all the time!" Gunther blurted, looking distressed. "It just happens."

"Oh – don't worry about it." Kick rubbed the back of his neck, still holding Gunther's arm with his other hand.

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable," Gunther said. His composure was rapidly deteriorating; Kick could feel him shaking. "I don't want to be – weird – like that – but I think I just am."

Gunther wilted and dropped his gaze to the floor. He looked like he was waiting to be hugged or thrown out. Kick was reeling. He'd been pretty sure that Gunther was 'weird like that' since they were kids, but he never thought – never –

"It just makes me feel small," Kick said, pushing the words out fast. A flush spread over his skin when Gunther looked up at him with surprise. "Sometimes," Kick added, muttering.

"Oh, Kick," Gunther said, so softly that Kick got goosebumps from sheer embarrassment. "You – I – I mean, I know you don't appreciate it right now, but I, I – _I love that you're small_!" He lifted Kick off the ground and yanked him against his chest for a crushing bear hug. Kick coughed against Gunther's shirt, trying to regain his breath as Gunther hummed to himself and rocked him in his arms, radiating happiness

"Well," Kick said, coughing again. "I guess I'm glad you're big." He felt dumb saying so, but it was true. He shouldn't love the fact that his best friend was enormous, thereby making Kick look and feel that much smaller in comparison, but he _did_ like it. He'd never really thought about why until now, and he still couldn't put his finger on it, but it was good, all good. He looked up into Gunther's face, and Gunther's expression of pure joy made him blush.

"Put me down, maybe?" Kick said.

"Oh – sorry!" Gunther laughed nervously, and his face turned red, too. He put his arms behind his back and looked down at his shoes, toeing the carpet. "Um, you wanted to watch the rest of the video?"

"Yeah." Kick took Gunther by the elbow and led him back over to the couch. When he sat, Gunther crowded him as usual, but he didn't seem to know what to do next. He was fidgety, still blushing hard, his leg bouncing. Kick cleared his throat and steeled himself. He didn't want to be responsible for Gunther checking his affection. Kick was never going to change: he would always push the limits and only think about the consequences when it was too late, no regret, covered with scars. Gunther wouldn't change, either, not if Kick had anything to say about it.

"So, here," Kick said, avoiding Gunther's eyes as he reached over and pulled Gunther's arm around him. Gunther's body heat was verging on actual humidity, and he only hesitated for a moment before going all in. He wrapped his other arm around Kick, too, pulling him so close that Kick ended up with one butt cheek in Gunther's lap, his right leg sliding across Gunther's thighs. Kick was roasting inside his clothes, not sure if he was indulging Gunther or himself as he let his weight rest against Gunther's side and brought his hand up to cover Gunther's, which was resting on the pudge of Kick's stomach. Gunther was humming with glee again, rubbing his face against Kick's helmet.

"Don't take this the wrong way," Gunther said. "But you are _so_ cuddly. I could cuddle you _forever_."

Kick grunted, too embarrassed to respond. He wasn't sure what was happening, but he was tired, and Gunther made a good pillow, warm and soft and purring with contentment as Kick relaxed into his arms, his cheek resting on Gunther's pillowy chest. Whatever this was, he had to admit: if anyone was going to make long term cuddling plans around him, it had better and always be Gunther.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thanks so much to everyone who read and reviewed the first chapter! I really wasn't expecting to get such a great response, and I'm thrilled - this was going to be a oneshot, but your reactions to the story have inspired me to write more. There will probably be five or six chapters total. Thanks again! This fandom is tiny and it means a lot to hear from you guys. :)

* * *

Kick hardly ever got sick, but whenever he did, his parents were always out of town on pageant business with Brianna. Brad was once tasked with taking care of him, and he always did a horrible job, but now that Brad was off at college, the Buttowskis had to bring in outside help.

"I told you not to hang around in those wet clothes!" Gunther said as soon as he was through Kick's bedroom door. Kick's last stunt had indeed involved water, and he didn't get arrested, but he did stay on the scene signing autographs for an hour at the ravine, and now he felt like hell, his throat a scratchy minefield and his skin feverish and sweaty inside his pajamas. Kick had no problem with pain when it was of the broken bones and bruised ribs variety, but this kind of pain was terrible, because it made him weak and useless, only able to stare blandly at Gunther as he unpacked the bag he'd brought for the weekend. It was mostly full of Kick-related items: cough medicine and cans of chicken soup, a tea pot.

"My parents have all that stuff, you know," Kick said, wincing when the words seemed to scrape against the back of his sore throat. His voice was about three octaves deeper than normal, and he sounded like a sixty-year-old man who smoked three packs a day.

"Whatever your parents have isn't working," Gunther says. "You've been sick for three days! Three, Kick! That's unacceptable. I'm going to make you some soup."

"Did my parents leave already?" Kick asked. He thought he'd heard the car, but in his state of semi-delirium he couldn't be sure. Gunther nodded.

"They told me to tell you goodbye, and that they would have come up but they're running late." Gunther looked like he felt guilty for saying so, as if he was the one who'd abandoned his half-dead son in favor of plastic tiaras. Kick shrugged.

"I'd rather have you here, anyway," he said, thinking out loud. Gunther blushed, and Kick wished he hadn't said that. He was having a hard time controlling what came out of his mouth, from a combination of feverishness and cough syrup.

"You'll see," Gunther said, fumbling through his bag again. "By Sunday morning you'll be feeling much better. Ah, here it is." He stood and held up a can of soup with foreign words written on it. "Mushroom soup from Norway!"

"Of course," Kick said. He coughed into his hand and sunk down lower on his pillows.

"Poor Kick," Gunther said, frowning. "You look – well, you've looked better. But no matter! This stuff is like a miracle drug. My mom gives it to me every time I'm sick. I'll go heat it up for you – be right back!"

He was gone before Kick could work up the energy to tell him that he had no appetite and just wanted to sleep. Kick moaned and rolled onto his side, pulling the blankets up over his ear. Gunther might be a little overenthusiastic, but Kick was glad to have him there, even if things had been kind of weird between them lately. Kick never should have had a conversation with Gunther about his tendency to cuddle him, because there was nothing for Kick to do but give his permission, and now Gunther didn't seem to know when to stop. Not that he ever had, but the whole thing was making Kick wonder if Gunther had – thoughts – about him, which in turn forced him to wonder if all of his thoughts about Gunther were strictly friendly. Kick opened his bleary eyes and surveyed the things Gunther had brought for the weekend. His sleeping bag was not among them. Maybe he would just sleep in Brad's room, or on the couch. Kick was annoyed by the idea that Gunther would leave him alone in here at night, though he was also annoyed by the idea that Gunther might try to climb in bed with him.

"Here you go!" Gunther said when he came bursting back in carrying a tray. There was a steaming bowl of mushroom soup on it, along with a napkin and a glass of what looked like – "Fresh-squeezed orange juice!" Gunther confirmed, handing the glass to Kick. He set the tray across Kick's legs while he drank the juice. Kick gave Gunther a look when as he tucked the napkin into the front of Kick's shirt for him, humming to himself.

"I'm not a complete invalid," Kick said.

"Of course you're not." Gunther patted Kick's head, something that always made him feel about two feet tall, even while seated. "I'll be right back!" Gunther said before Kick could object to his startlingly cheerful demeanor. When Gunther returned, Kick was nearly done with the soup, which was surprisingly good, coating his throat the way the cough syrup did. Gunther was out of breath as he reentered the room, the Buttowskis' ancient living room TV hoisted in his arms.

"Whoa," Kick said. The thing had an elaborate wooden frame and had to weigh at least a hundred pounds. "What are you doing?"

"I thought – you might – like to watch – TV," Gunther said, panting as he set it down and turned it so that it was facing Kick's bed.

"I don't have a cable hookup in here," Kick said. He was starting to worry about Gunther. Something about this whole display was a little bit – manic, even for him.

"We could watch videos!" Gunther said, dashing over to the cabinet that housed Kick's video library. "Some of the old classics, maybe, from when we were kids."

"Take a breath, buddy," Kick said. He pushed the tray away, down toward his knees. "That soup was really good. Do you have more of that?"

"You want another can?" Gunther asked, already dropping down to pull one from his bag.

"No – wait, Gunther, chill. I meant for later. I'm full, actually."

"Then I'll just take this," Gunther said. He grabbed the tray and zipped away with it. Kick felt dizzy just from watching him. Since when was Gunther _spry_?

The soup's magic had worn off by the time Gunther returned, Kick's throat beginning to feel sandpapery and raw again. Gunther had the solution for this at the ready before Kick could even ask for it: another dose of cough syrup, right on schedule. Kick scowled at Gunther when he held a spoonful of it up to Kick's lips.

"I can do it," Kick said, taking the spoon from him and slurping the medicine off.

"Oh, right, sorry." Gunther laughed nervously and set the cough syrup down on the bedside table. "Do you need anything else? Water? A hot compress? The floor fan?"

"I'm fine," Kick said. He set the spoon on the table beside the cough syrup bottle. "I just want to take a nap. Maybe we could watch some videos first, though. Until I fall asleep."

"Sounds great!" Gunther went to the cabinet and began rooting through the older videos. "Oh, man, there's some great ones in here. Remember the parasail we built?"

"Yep," Kick said. He reached down under the blankets to touch a scar on his thigh from that particular venture. Only then did he consider the fact that he wasn't wearing pants. It had never been a big deal to be undressed in Gunther's presence – before, anyway. Now he felt weird, and looked down at the crumpled pajama pants on the floor. He'd shed them last night when he was coated in sweat.

Gunther started the parasail video, and Kick reclined, preparing to watch himself earn the scar that his fingers were still lingering over. When Gunther turned toward the bed, Kick pulled his hand out from under the blankets, realizing that probably looked pretty weird, his hand moving between his legs. It was the kind of thing he never used to think twice about - _before_. Thinking about it now, he realized why Gunther was so jumpy and hyperactive. Neither of them really knew how to navigate whatever was changing between them. Kick still wasn't sure if he wanted things to change.

"What are you doing?" he asked when Gunther just stood in the middle of the room looking glum and confused. "Come on." Kick scooted over to make room for Gunther on the pillows he'd propped up against the bed's headboard. Gunther was huge, but Kick was small, and they'd always fit together comfortably on Kick's twin size bed, reading comics or studying blueprints that they'd spread across their knees as they plotted stunts. It helped, of course, that Gunther wasn't shy about physical contact and would sit with Kick between his legs if necessary.

Gunther got into bed with Kick, looking relieved. Kick considered putting his pants back on, but Gunther was on top of the blankets, anyway, and it wasn't like they hadn't seen each other with less clothing hundreds of times. He let Gunther sling a heavy arm around him, and almost as soon as he'd rolled against Gunther and rested his cheek in the crook between Gunther's chest and shoulder, he was asleep. Gunther smelled like freshly squeezed oranges and the Ivory hand soap that Kick's mother used in the kitchen, and Kick could hear his heart beat like a bass line in the background of his dreams, something that seemed to root him on as he sailed through the air and shredded pavement.

He woke up to the sound of static, the video over and Gunther sound asleep behind him, so much of his weight dumped onto Kick that it took some finagling for him to reach the remote control and turn off the TV. Kick had rolled onto his side in his sleep, and Gunther had apparently followed. He was spooned up behind Kick, still on top of the blankets, snoring softly. It had started raining, and Kick watched it wash over the window while he listened to Gunther snore. Everything outside looked like gray slush, and Kick was actually glad to be in here, not out there, which was almost never true. He grabbed Gunther's arm and pulled it across his chest like a blanket.

"Kick," Gunther said, sighing, and Kick turned to him, but he was talking in his sleep, still out cold.

They slept for most of the afternoon, Kick dreaming about biking through jungles, then down the sides of boiling hot volcanoes, confused about why he was wet when he woke up. Gunther was snoring louder now, his leg slung over Kick's hip, and Kick was melting underneath the heat of him, his t-shirt drenched.

"Gunther," he said, elbowing him. "Hey! Wake up." Kick's voice was weaker after sleeping, just a faint scratch that he could barely push out from the back of his throat. Gunther moaned and nuzzled at Kick's neck, his bottom lip wet with drool.

"Dude, I'm serious here!" Kick said, fidgeting with every ounce of strength his sapped body had in it. Gunther jerked in his sleep and finally woke, mumbling drowsily.

"What time is it?" he asked, his face still pressed to the back of Kick's neck and his leg still holding Kick prisoner against the mattress.

"Time for you to get off of me before I die of heat stroke," Kick said. Gunther's shirt was wet when he rolled away, a Kick-shaped print left in the middle.

"Oh – Kick – I'm sorry – Kick!" Gunther's eyes bugged out as he came to completely. "You're drenched! Oh my God! I need to take your temperature!"

"It's just because -" Kick said, but he couldn't manage to say, _You were holding onto me_. He watches Gunther race for his bag full of sick bed supplies and come up with a thermometer. Kick glowers at Gunther as he sticks the thing in Kick's mouth. He feels miserable, his head throbbing and his skin clammy.

"A hundred and two!" Gunther read when the thermometer had beeped. "Kick! That's bad!"

"I'm fine," Kick said, sweat still dripping down over his eyelashes. "I just need to cool down."

"Kick, I hate to say it," Gunther said. "But I think you need to take your helmet off."

"What! No!" Kick held it on with both hands. "Why?"

"Um, 'cause there's sweat pouring down your face?"

Kick accepted defeat, so hot that he was willing to part with his helmet, though he didn't let it get far. He tucked it under his arm and touched his hair self-consciously. There was nothing special about his hair: it was short, brown, and straight, a little on the thick side. Gunther always got excited about seeing it, for some reason.

"Feel better?" Gunther asked.

"I guess," Kick said, though he did, ten times cooler already.

"Let me see that helmet," Gunther said, holding out his hands. Kick frowned and hugged it to him.

"What for?" he asked.

"I'm not going to hurt it, Kick! I'm just going to clean it for you. It kinda stinks. No offense."

"I can clean it myself," Kick said, hugging it more protectively. "There's a special method."

"Fine." Gunther sighed. "I didn't want to say it, but someone has to. You kinda stink, too, Kick."

"Well, I'm sick!" Kick said, suddenly too acutely aware of his near-death aroma. Gunter was pretty much right.

"Not that I don't like the smell of your sweat!" Gunther said. Kick's eyebrows shot up. "Eh-heh, but this is really a case of too much of a good thing. Do you want me to run you a bath?"

Gunther had a way of phrasing things that sometimes made Kick cringe with embarrassment. He couldn't remember the last time someone_ ran him a bath_. He wasn't the kind of person who got baths run for him.

"I can run – I can fill my own bath," Kick said, but when he tried to get up he found that he lacked the energy to even lift his head off the pillow. He moaned and flopped back down as another wave of uncomfortable heat sunk into his skin. "Just give me a second."

"I've got a better idea," Gunther said. He disappeared, and Kick heard the water running in the hall bathroom. He didn't like the sound of this. When Gunther returned, he had Kick's deodorant, a towel, and a couple of damp washcloths. He set them on the bedside table and, without warning, pulled Kick's sweat-soaked t-shirt off, then stripped the damp sheets away from him.

"Nice undies," Gunther said, and Kick put his hands over himself, flushing. His underwear had little cartoon lightening bolts on them. They were ironically cool, he was sure.

"This is humiliating," Kick said as Gunther rubbed the cool washcloths over him, sopping up his sweat. It felt good, and Kick was momentarily glad for this illness that had shut certain body functions down. Under normal circumstances, being rubbed all over like this might have been a hundred times more embarrassing.

"Don't be a baby," Gunther said. He rolled Kick over onto his stomach, tossing away his drenched pillow. "I'll get you a new pillowcase," he said. "And we should really change your sheets."

"I'll just sweat all over them again," Kick said. "Especially –" He stopped himself from saying it, but Gunther went quiet.

"Especially if I'm there with you," Gunther said. "I know. I'm just making things worse."

"No, you're not." Kick turned his head on the mattress and looked at Gunther. "I've been tossing and turning, but then – just now – I slept better than I have in days."

Gunther perked up, cautiously. He smiled at Kick and resumed cleaning his back. Kick closed his eyes and gave in to how good it felt. Gunther had pulled rose thorns out of his ass, after all. There was no reason for modesty between them.

After Kick had been cleaned as well as possible, Gunther sprayed him with deodorant and helped him into a fresh t-shirt. Kick did feel better, except for the return of the unbearable scratch in his throat. Before he could ask for more cough syrup, Gunther was there with the spoon.

"You rest now," Gunther said, pushing Kick's hair off of his forehead. "I'll go make you some dinner."

"Thanks. And – Gunther?"

"Yeah?"

Kick sighed and held his helmet out. "You can clean her," he said. "I trust you."

"Oh, Kick." Gunther took the helmet from Kick and leaned down to give him a peck on the cheek. Kick, very unfortunately, turned into the kiss and caught it on the lips, only realizing what Gunther was aiming for when it was too late. They stared at each other, Gunther's face still hovering in front of Kick's. He looked stunned, confused, and vaguely alarmed. Kick supposed he looked the same way.

"I'll just get your dinner then!" Gunther said, so loudly that Kick flinched. Then Gunther was gone, racing out the room, and Kick was left helmet-less, a new layer of sweat already beading over his skin.

Alone in the room, Kick stared at the ceiling and tried to figure out what had just happened. Did he kiss Gunther? On purpose? When did he even decide to do that? When it seemed like Gunther was going to do it anyway? Was he just being a good sport? Was he actually, seriously disappointed when Gunther ran away instead of hanging around for more? Kick groaned and rolled over, hiding his face in the pillow.

He must have slept, but when he woke to the sound of a spoon clinking against a bowl, he didn't feel rested. Gunther was back with his tray, stirring something. There was bread that smelled way too fresh – did he _bake_ that himself? Somehow, Kick found this annoying. Like he could really be expected to not kiss Gunther when Gunther was baking freaking bread for him.

"What's that?" Kick asked, in a bad mood now.

"It's a spicy sausage stew – my dad's recipe," Gunther said. "And some sourdough bread, and some more orange juice, and your favorite soda. Well, your second favorite. I thought Cheetah Chug might be a little extreme for the occasion. Or it might react badly with the cough medicine. Anyway: Cherry Coke!"

"Thanks, Gunther," Kick said, his annoyance dissipating as Gunther set the tray in his lap. "Did you want to watch another video?"

"We could do that," Gunther said. "Or!" He whipped a book out from behind his back: Billy Stumps' autobiography. "I could read to you from your favorite book!"

"Yeah." Kick grinned, stirring his soup, which looked kind of amazing, comprising at least seven different components that he could readily identify. "That'd be awesome, Gunther, thanks. This stew smells really spicy."

"It is! I know how you love spicy stuff, and it will help clear up your sinuses." Gunther got the desk chair from the corner of the room and pulled it over to Kick's bed.

"What are you doing?" Kick asked.

"Reading," Gunther said, sitting down and opening the book in his lap.

"No, I mean." Kick stared down the soup, wondering if he was the one being too clingy now. "You could sit in the bed if you want. I mean, if you'd be more comfortable."

"I don't want to crowd you," Gunther said, and Kick heard, _I don't want to kiss you_. Maybe he was wrong about everything, reading his own weird urges into Gunther's innocently exuberant personality. He ate the soup without really listening to the stories he'd already read a million times anyway, trying to figure out what his urges even were. To kiss Gunther? It seemed so. To have Gunther's oppressive body heat pressed up against him whenever possible? Weirdly, yeah.

After eating, Kick was full and sleepy again, listening to Gunther's voice more than the words he was reading. He tried to figure out where these feelings came from: obviously, Gunther was great, obviously Kick loved him, but that was all friend-related. There had to be something more if Kick was whipping around for a kiss on the lips when Gunther overstepped friendship in his usual Gunther-esque way and tried to plant a friendly one on Kick's cheek. He studied Gunther's face, trying to figure out what had changed. It must have happened when Kick was in juvey, because now Gunther didn't just seem blond, he seemed honey-hued, and now he didn't just have a wide chest that Kick envied, he had an invitingly Gunther-scented chest that Kick wanted for a pillow all the time, even when he wasn't tired.

Kick fell asleep to the sound of Gunther's voice, and when he woke again the room was dark, Gunther nowhere to be found. Kick was alarmed, as if someone had stolen Gunther, and then he heard the distant sound of dishes clinking and water running. Comforted by the thought of Gunther at the sink, wearing Kick's mother's elbow-length, purple dishwashing gloves, Kick dropped to sleep again.

When he woke it was still dark, and a clammy, familiar hand was resting on his forehead. Gunther startled when he saw Kick blinking up at him sleepily, his eyes adjusting to the dark.

"I was just checking to make sure you weren't burning up in here," Gunther said, whispering, as if someone else in the room was asleep and he and Kick were risking waking him. "Go back to sleep, okay?"

"Ngh – no, Gunther, jeez, c'mere."

Delirious, Kick scooted over, making room for Gunther and holding up the blankets. He was so deep in a sleepy place where he wasn't worried about anything that he didn't even consider the fact that Gunther might hesitate or refuse. He did neither; he toed off his Crocs and climbed under the blankets. Kick curled in close to him, breathing in the smell of him, which was a combination of the spicy soup and something else that made Kick smile.

"You drank Cheetah Chug," he said, his eyes closed.

"I wanted to be able to stay up and keep an eye on you," Gunther said, still whispering. Kick cracked his eyes open and moved closer, smiling dopily when Gunther curled his big arm around Kick's shoulders and pulled him to his chest.

"Kick," Gunther said. He looked sad, or scared, and his hand was shaking on Kick's back. "You kissed me."

"I know," Kick said, mumbling, and he promptly fell asleep again, his face pressed to Gunther's neck.

In the morning, Kick wasn't sure which parts of the previous day he'd dreamed and which actually happened. He felt more cognizant than he had in days, and he happily accepted more mushroom soup from Gunther for breakfast, then leftover sausage stew for lunch. By dinner time, he was feeling well enough to get out of bed and sit at the kitchen table, watching Gunther chop vegetables for ratatouille. It was as delicious as the stew had been, and they ate big bowls of it out of their laps on the living room couch, watching a BMX competition on the TV, which Gunther had brought back downstairs.

Kick fell asleep on the couch, on Gunther, his leg thrown across Gunther's lap and his head nestled snugly against Gunther's chest. It was the perfect pillow, and Kick thought about this drowsily when he shifted in his sleep, nuzzling his cheek against Gunther until he was newly comfortable. Gunther was the perfect balance of soft and firm, and his hand felt good at the back of Kick's neck, too, his fingers stroking along Kick's hairline. Thinking of his hair, Kick woke with a start.

"My –" he said, and Gunther shook his head.

"Your helmet's fine," Gunther said. "It's in the kitchen. It's just airing out."

Kick stared at him, blinked, and passed out again, his head dropping back down to Gunther's chest.

He didn't wake up when Gunther carried him to bed. He woke up in bed, made sure Gunther was there beside him – yes, he was – and slept again.

By Sunday, Kick was feeling mostly normal, wearing his helmet again, and he helped Gunther make chocolate chip pancakes. They ate them in front of the TV, watching cartoons, and Gunther wiped melted chocolate from the corner of Kick's lips with his thumb. Kick watched him lick it off, his mouth hanging open and his fork frozen over his plate. Gunther smiled, and Kick wanted to kiss him, but suddenly his parents were at the door, exhaling exhaustedly as they carted Brianna's many accessories inside.

"I won," Brianna announced when she followed them in, hoisting a trophy. She was in her usual post-competition uniform of sweatpants and a t-shirt, her long blond hair pulled up in a messy bun.

"Yay!" Gunther said. "Congratulations!"

"Kick, you look so much better!" his mother said. "Gunther, you must have a healing touch."

Gunther and Kick looked at each other and laughed nervously, blushing. After some brief pleasantries with Kick's parents, Gunther gathered up his stuff and headed for the door. Kick walked him out, feeling weird, like some significant era in his life was ending, though it had barely been three days since Gunther showed up to take care of him.

"Well," Kick said when they were standing on the front stoop. It was a bright fall afternoon, people pruning their rose bushes and raking leaves. "Thanks for – everything. I know it was a pain in the ass."

"No, it wasn't," Gunther said, looking wounded. "Kick, I. You know I would do anything for you."

Kick put his hands in his pockets and waited to know what to do next. He wanted to do what he'd always done, which was dive off a cliff first and figure out what was waiting at the bottom later, and that was when he understood why Gunther backed off after their accidental kiss. Gunther was the one who stood on the sidelines and worried about what would happen if Kick took a risk. _I don't know if this is such a good idea, Kick_. He needed Kick to be the one who waved away his concerns and blasted off.

"I know," Kick said. "I know you'd do anything." He stood up on his tip-toes, still barely making it to Gunther's lips, but as soon as he grazed them Gunther sucked in his breath and grabbed Kick around his waist, pulling him up higher, his lips opening against Kick's. Neither of them knew how to kiss, though Kick had kissed girls, and for all he knew Gunther had, too. But this was real kissing, something else entirely, because Kick was trying to climb Gunther for more, and Gunther was holding him so tight he couldn't breathe. Gunther's tongue tasted like semi-sweet chocolate chips, and Kick knew his did, too, but there was something else that they tasted on each other that was even better than that, because they were trying to lick it up like they'd be able to keep it forever if they got every drop.

Kick broke away first, afraid his parents or his neighbors would see them. Gunther's eyes were almost unfamiliar when he looked down at Kick after their kiss, grown-up and unafraid, but then he was just Gunther again, blushing hard and smiling nervously.

"Thanks," Kick said, and he felt stupid, like he was thanking Gunther for the kiss, but he'd already thanked him for everything else, so he must have been.

"Anytime, buddy," Gunther said. He kissed Kick's nose and released him, walking backward, smiling wide. "I, uh, I'll call you later, okay?"

"Okay," Kick said, though they almost never talked on the phone, usually used walkie talkies during stunt coordination and just showed up at each other's houses for anything more complicated. Kick waved, the panic of realizing that he was already over the cliff and still not sure what was waiting for him at the bottom jerking through him as Gunther walked away.

Kick went back into the house, freezing in the foyer when he saw Brianna standing there, holding a pint of ice cream and a spoon, her eyes wide.

"Whoa," she said.

"Not a word to Mom and Dad," Kick said, pointing a threatening finger at her. She frowned.

"Why not?" she asked. "They love Gunther. And they, uh. They wouldn't care –"

"This is not a – thing," Kick said, the feverish sweat reappearing inside his clothes, though his fever had broken. "It was just. A weekend. And too much cough medicine. Way too much cough medicine."

"Whatever, Kick," Brianna said, shaking her head. She walked off to the living room, and Kick was left standing in the foyer, imagining all the pointy things that might be waiting for him when he hit the ground.


	3. Chapter 3

High school was a minefield of potential humiliation, but Kick had never hesitated to risk an explosion or two, and he'd been called Gunther's 'boyfriend' by everyone from Gordie to Kendall since elementary school, so it was no big deal to him if Gunther wanted to blatantly moon over him in the hallways, especially since he'd always done that anyway. Kick did have his limits, though he told himself it wasn't only because Gunther was a boy, even if he wasn't entirely sure he was okay with that yet. It wasn't really the boy thing that was bothering him, anyway. It was the best friend thing. Neither of them had ever had a real _relationship_ before, and if they did it wrong, Kick was afraid they would end up like Kendall and Ronaldo, who hated each other openly and turned into spitting snakes if they had to come within five feet of each other.

"Can I ask you a question?" Kick said one afternoon when he couldn't take the anxiety anymore, dropping his tray down across from Kendall's in the cafeteria. She was sitting alone, as usual. Though she was beautiful and probably the smartest girl in school, she'd never learned how to stop making the other girls feel inferior in comparison, and she refused to date high school boys, so she spent most of her lunch hour with her thumbs flying over her iPhone, typing God knew what to her college boyfriend, some guy named Hampton who drove an electric car.

"Ask away," Kendall said, putting her phone down. She and Kick had become friends back in middle school, when Kick started defending her to the girls who treated her like an outcast just because she was, he had to admit, pretty awesome. He and Kendall had that in common: Kick's awesomeness prevented most guys from wanting to associate with him, because they couldn't handle it. This made Gunther all the more irreplaceable, which made Kick desperate enough to ask for Kendall's advice. Kendall was his friend now, but Kick still hated to admit that she was sometimes smarter than him when it came to things other than physics and geometry.

"Do you remember when we used to, like, kiss?" Kick asked, twirling spaghetti around his fork. "After school?"

Kendall's eyes went wide. "Kick –" she said, looking queasy.

"Don't worry," he said. "I'm not reminiscing or anything. It was weird at best."

"Super weird," Kendall agreed, looking relieved. "I mean, you _were_ cute—"

"Were?"

"Okay, you still are, sort of." She rolled her eyes. "But it was just – I thought there would be _fireworks_. 'Cause stuff is always exploding around you. And, uh."

"Yeah," Kick said. "I remember. 'Uh.' But, like. Okay. Don't try to read too much into this, alright?"

"Sure." She was already reading too much into it, surely, but Kick had no one else to turn to. He and Gunther were still a secret from everyone but Brianna, and he'd gladly erase Brianna's memory of the kiss she witnessed if he could. It wasn't that he was embarrassed of Gunther specifically, though it was kind of horrendous that the person everyone had teased him for being too close to since childhood had ended up even closer, in a new and slightly humiliating way. Kick just didn't want anyone knowing his _feelings_ about anything. He wasn't okay with having feelings, really. They were so – sticky.

"It's just, um," Kick said while Kendall sat there staring at him, waiting for him to come up with the words. "Well, before me and you did that whole kissing thing, we couldn't stand each other. And afterward, when the, uh, tension was gone, we were actually friends. Do you think the opposite could happen? Like, if I was friends with someone – really good friends – and I did the kissing thing, could that, like. Make us hate each other if it ended?"

Kendall stared for a moment, and when she smiled, Kick knew he was screwed. It was kind of like watching a cement sidewalk rapidly approach his face.

"Well, well," Kendall said. She picked up her egg salad sandwich with both hands. "You finally started making out with Gunther, did you?"

"Shh!" Kick gritted his teeth and glared at her, looking around to make sure no one had heard. "Don't – just – keep it down!"

"So you don't deny it?" Kendall took a bite of the sandwich, looking so devilishly pleased by this information that Kick remembered what it was like to hate her as a kid. "But it's a secret, for some reason?"

"For some reason?" Kick scoffed. "I'm not even sure I'm okay with this yet. It's so – weird."

"Weird like you and me were weird?"

"No." Kick was already bright red, and he felt himself flush more deeply. He tugged at his collar and stared down at his spaghetti. With his stomach twisted up like this, the noodles looked about as appetizing as a pile of bloody guts. "It's – the other kind of weird."

"The other kind of weird?"

"Like, when you're upside down," Kick said. "And you're disoriented, in free fall, and there's this moment when you're not sure if you're going to land your jump, and everything slows down, and your stomach drops, but then you come out of the flip and you can see the ground again, and you know you're going to make it, and knowing it feels even better than that moment when the wheels hit the ramp, and the crowd – goes wild –" He let this die off in a mumble, because Kendall's eyes were getting wide again.

"Whoa," Kendall said. "I never – whoa."

"Never what?" Kick asked, glaring at her, daring her to make fun of him.

"I never thought I'd see little Kick Buttowski get all sappy about love."

"Don't call me little! And who said anything about love? This is – it's. Kissing." Sometimes it was more than that, too, but he wasn't about to discuss that with her. "So, just. Give me some advice here, alright? I don't want to mess this up."

"Oh, Kick." Kendall put her sandwich down and pressed a hand over her heart, smiling in a way that made him grimace in response. "Don't worry. It's Gunther. You can't mess that up. He loves you more than anything, no matter what."

"Don't say that." Kick's ears got hot, then the back of his neck.

"Why not?" Kendall narrowed her eyes at him. "Don't you want him to love you?"

"That's the problem," Kick said, hitting the table with his fist. "This Gunther – loving me – business, it's nothing new. We always had this great friendship, we'd do anything for each other, whatever, it was no big deal. And then – now – the kissing. Like, if I had to give up the kissing to keep the other stuff, I would." He actually wasn't sure about that, which was the problem. He was okay with being addicted to speed, danger, and the adulation of a roaring crowd. This kissing Gunther stuff was more dizzying than any of that, and lately he seemed to need it just as badly. It was complicating his self-image.

"You're approaching this from the wrong angle," Kendall said, holding up both hands. "You and Gunther were inevitable. Like, whatever you two were going to be? You're already that thing. So just go with it and don't worry. Over-thinking this is only going to make you trip up."

"So you admit that I could trip!" Tripping, crashing, face planting – he had never been afraid of any of that, had accepted that it happened to every daredevil maybe thirty percent of the time, but he'd never been okay with the crash landings that involved Gunther taking damage, too.

"See, that's over-thinking," Kendall said dryly. "Something that I didn't even think you were capable of, frankly. Remember when you 'broke up' with me?"

"Uh, no?"

"Exactly! You just stopped showing up after school. And that pissed me off for awhile, but it was also kind of a relief, because we both knew it wasn't working, and I didn't really want some big confrontation. So don't turn this into a big ceremony. I shouldn't need to tell you of all people to just do it, but, Kick. Just do it."

"Fine," Kick said, embarrassed. He stood from the table, his lunch mostly uneaten. "And it should go without saying, but you'd better not tell anybody about this. Not even Hampton."

"Like Hammy cares about high school drama," Kendall said with a wave of her hand. "But seriously, Kick, I'm happy for you. This is an important step toward your overdue self-actualization."

"Ugh," Kick said, pretending to gag. "Alright. I'm going."

Kendall's sage advice didn't really make him feel better. It just proved that she didn't get it. Nobody did. Gunther wasn't some forgone conclusion. Kick waited for him at his locker after his last class, as usual, feeling tense. As soon as he saw Gunther he felt better, and he grinned as he watched Gunther barrel through the halls with his Viking-esque presence, smiling at everyone and clapping passing football teammates on the shoulders, making the smaller ones stumble. Gunther was an offensive tackle for the Mellowbrook High Monarchs. His team nickname was Thor.

"Hey, how was your day?" Gunther asked as soon as he saw Kick, immediately switching into ignoring-everyone-else mode.

"It was okay," Kick said. "I think I flunked a vocab test."

"Kick! Vocab? But we made flashcards!"

"Yeah, well," Kick said, mumbling, not willing to remind Gunther, in present company, that their vocab studying session had ended with a collection of flashcards that were crushed after being scattered across Kick's bed and made out upon.

"You'll do better on the next one," Gunther said, his cheeks coloring a bit as he seemed to recall how that particular study session played out. "Hey, guess what?" he asked, beaming again.

"What?"

"I signed us up for an after school club!"

"Gunther." Kick rolled his eyes and groaned, letting his head fall back. "You know I hate –"

"I know, I know! You want to leave school as early as possible. But you need something extracurricular on your transcripts if you want to get into college, and skateboarding through the mall isn't going to count. Plus, this is important!"

"Important?" As far as Kick was concerned, skateboarding through the mall was damned important, especially when said skateboarding involved record-breaking escalator-related stunts, and who said he wanted to go to college, anyway?

"Check it out!" Gunther said, and he pulled a neon pink flyer from the back pocket of his jeans. "It's a Gay Straight Alliance!" Gunther said before Kick could read it, his voice booming down the hall like he was doing the aria in a freaking opera.

"Gunther!" Kick said, hissing and stuffing the flyer down the front of his shirt. "Ah – what – why –"

"Don't get all flustered," Gunther said, doing that hand flick thing that had always made Kick suspect he'd eventually be a part of something neon pink. "It's no big deal, just some kids sitting around talking about what it's like to be gay and what we can do in the community to promote tolerance. Doesn't that sound great?"

Kick stared at Gunther, feeling like he'd just been presented with a bucket full of mud and told that it was a birthday cake. He objected, first and foremost, to talking. It was one of his least favorite things to do, especially when time was specifically set aside for said activity. Furthermore, this gay thing. Maybe he wanted to kiss Gunther, and roll around atop vocabulary flashcards with him, and claim Gunther's chest as his permanent pillow, no take backs, but that _word_. It didn't work on him, somehow.

"Look," Kick said, glancing around to make sure no one was staring. "Can we talk about this on the walk home?"

"What's there to talk about?" Gunther asked, looking crestfallen. Crestfallen Gunther was Kick's least favorite thing to have in his immediate field of vision, even worse than a cement sidewalk rushing toward his face. "I thought you'd be into this. I mean. You're – we're –"

"Let's not make this into some sort of – _ceremony_," Kick said, flushed and flustered, pulling Gunther away from the lockers. "I mean. Can't we just, uh. Do it? And not, like. Accessorize?"

"Accessorize?" Gunther frowned, but he let Kick continue to pull him toward the doors they always excited through before their walk home. "Kick, I'm not asking you to wear a _hair bow_. This is important! This is who we _are_."

"Gunther, just – chill," Kick said, boiling inside his clothes now, ready to get Gunther away from the public arena and into a place where he could say spine-crushingly humiliating things and only Kick would hear them. Under those circumstances, Gunther's enthusiasm for – Alliances and such – was charming. Elsewhere, it felt like he was taking Kick's clothes off one article at a time and asking him what the big deal was when he ended up naked in the middle of school.

"Chill?" Gunther said as Kick pulled him out into the cool fall afternoon, everything outside reeking of dead leaves and wax vampire teeth, the way it always did in Mellowbrook before Halloween. "I don't think I'm the one who needs to 'chill,' Kick. I think you do."

"Fine, I'll chill," Kick said. He had no plans to actually do so, but the making out with Gunther hour was approaching, and he didn't want to piss Gunther off and forfeit what was lately his favorite part of the day. Since his last arrest, his parents had made daredevil pursuits very difficult to pull off, and he had to pick his battles on that front, which meant that, most afternoons, the most exciting activities available were those that took place in his bedroom, with Gunther, music playing just loud enough to conceal Gunther's various vocalizations and quietly enough to keep his parents from complaining.

"What, are you ashamed or something?" Gunther asked, staring straight ahead as he asked this, scowling. "Of me?"

"God, Gunther, no!" Kick tugged on his arm. "That's not it and you know it." They were passing the football stadium, but it was empty. Gunther would have practice tomorrow and a game on Friday. Kick always attended the games, but just to be nice. He found football about as exciting as dirt bike competitions that had rules and scorekeepers. He'd rather just ride a dirt bike down Widowmaker's Peak and get congratulated for surviving, and if football could be interpreted on that level of awesome he would be all for it, but football was the most rule-ridden enterprise there was, the action only lasting twenty seconds before some official started blowing a whistle.

"Do I know that, Kick?" Gunther asked after some angry silence. "Do I? I heard you ate lunch with Kendall today."

"Heard? From who?"

"Never mind who. Are you, I mean, do you –"

"I was asking her for advice on you," Kick said, slapping his hand over his face, thoroughly humiliated. Gunther stopped walking and stared at him.

"Advice? What, on how to dump me?"

"Dump you – Gunther! No! I wanted advice on, ah. I don't know. On, on –" He didn't know how to articulate any of his fears without turning this afternoon into an even bigger travesty, so he bit his lip and steeled himself. "I was asking about, uh. Sex."

"Sex?" Gunther boggled at him, and the red that crept onto his cheeks came slowly. "Oh."

"Yeah, so." Kick started walking again, hoping that Gunther wouldn't inquire further.

"What's Kendall going to tell you about sex?" Gunther asked, following him. "Like she's some sort of expert or something?"

"Well, her boyfriend is in college," Kick said. "Look, can we just drop it? Since when do you care if I talk to Kendall? You know we're friends. She's your friend, too."

"Not really," Gunther said. "And you guys – you and her, you used to –"

"Don't remind me," Kick said. "Trust me, you've got no reason to be jealous of her."

"Jealous?" Gunther scoffed dramatically. "Me, jealous? Of that beanpole? No, yeah, I don't think so."

He was in a bad mood after that, and Kick was, too. They didn't talk for most of the walk home, and Kick's stomach twisted up uncomfortably as he realized that it was already happening. Things between him and Gunther were changing because of this other thing, the kissing thing.

Brianna was in the kitchen when they arrived at Kick's house, and Kick was not happy to see her. Ever since she saw him kissing Gunther, Brianna gave Kick obnoxiously knowing smiles, and especially if he and Gunther were together. Today was no exception, and Kick did his best to ignore her as he went to the fridge for the root beer.

"Want some?" he asked Gunther, and he was grateful when Gunther nodded and accepted a glass. At least Gunther wasn't completely ignoring Kick, even if he was annoyed. Kick sighed as he poured soda, realizing that he was going to have to go to that neon pink meeting or risk having Gunther be mad at him for longer than the duration of a walk home from school.

"So, what are you guys doing this afternoon?" Brianna asked, leaning on the counter. She was drinking one of her disgusting vegetable smoothies. It was green and sludgy, sliming down the side of her glass after she took a sip. "Studying?" She pronounced the word like it was dirty.

"Yep," Gunther said. Kick just narrowed his eyes at Brianna in warning. "We've got a big history test coming up."

"Well, best of luck," Brianna said as Kick pulled Gunther toward the second floor stairs. "Have fun."

Kick brought Gunther up to his room, shut and locked the door, and turned on the radio. He was very glad that Brad wasn't living at home, because his teasing would be about ten thousand times more obnoxious than Brianna's. Kick sat down on his bed, feeling glum as he considered the prospect that, if this worked out, Brad would know about him and Gunther eventually, and would never stop laughing.

"What's wrong, Kick?" Gunther asked, soft and sympathetic again as he sat down beside Kick and put an arm around him. "Are you sad because we can't do stunts after school anymore?"

"Yeah," Kick said. "I mean – sort of." He looked up at Gunther and studied his face, taking stock of all the things that he liked about it: Gunther's fat lips, his little freckles, dark blond eyelashes, blue eyes, and the way he looked at Kick like this, like it was killing him that he couldn't throw himself over every muddy puddle that Kick had to walk through.

"I'm sorry I tried to pressure you about that," Gunther said when Kick pulled the crumpled neon pink flyer out of his shirt. "It's just – I thought. I don't know. Going to those meetings would make it real."

"This doesn't feel real to you?" Kick asked, pretending to be surprised. It was surreal for him, too, until they were alone together like this.

"I don't know what to think," Gunther said, looking like he might cry. "Sometimes I'm afraid you're only doing this because you're bored. Like I'm some kind of indoor Widowmaker's Peak."

"Gunther, that's ridiculous," Kick said, though it wasn't. He'd wondered that himself, but Gunther didn't need to know that. Kick kissed him, just on the cheek, because he had to work his way back to feeling sure about this every time they picked up where they'd left off.

"Aren't you scared, though?" Gunther asked. "I mean, I know you're not scared of anything, but –"

"You said it." Kick took hold of Gunther's face, smoothing his thumbs over his cheeks. "I'm not scared of anything."

He didn't like lying to Gunther, but he did want him to feel better, so he kissed him on the lips this time. Kick didn't want to talk about how scared he was, didn't want to over-think, didn't want to think at all, and when Gunther's tongue slid against his he was certain that Kendall was right: he should just do it. He clambered into Gunther's lap, let Gunther pull him closer, and sighed as he looped his arms around Gunther's neck, pushing both hands into Gunther's hair.

Eventually he was airborne, no going back, barely in control of where his hands went, but it didn't matter. Gunther was into it now, too, his hands closing around Kick's thighs while Kick's mouth trailed from Gunther's lips and down to his neck. It made Kick do this sort of growling thing, the way Gunther's skin smelled right there, between his jaw and his throat, where Gunther's pulse hammered against Kick's lips like a thing that he could capture between his teeth and hold on his tongue.

_Tick tick tick _and Kick was getting closer to the ground now, closer to crashing, but he didn't care, he liked this sort of crash, and anyway, Gunther always caught him.

"Kick," Gunther breathed into his ear when the crash landing was imminent, and the way he said Kick's name turned it into some other word, dirty but not really a curse, a kind of compliment wrapped in a dare. Kick was saying things, too, or growling them, anyway, his mouth open against Gunther's neck.

"Can I –"

"Yeah, that's –"

"Shit, guh, yeah –"

"_Kehh_- Kick—"

Kick crashed hard and crumpled, panting against Gunther, splayed out on top of him. Gunther was on his back now, his breath like an earthquake and his hands squeezed around Kick's ass so possessively that it would be hilarious if it wasn't rapidly becoming embarrassing, how much Kick had liked that two seconds ago. Kick squirmed and Gunther moaned, his hands traveling obediently upward, one sliding into Kick's hair and the other resting heavily at the small of his back. Kick felt like he could fall asleep, and sometimes he did, on top of Gunther like this, half-dressed and sweaty, birds twittering in that bush outside his window. Sometimes he couldn't believe he'd ever had a favorite thing that wasn't this.

"Dang," Gunther said, because for some reason he always felt like he needed to commentate on this, like it was a stunt he'd just helped to coordinate. "That was a good one."

"Mmph."

"Are you going to sleep, Kick?" Gunther asked, and he sounded so enamored with the fact that Kick might, as if it was cute or something, that Kick made himself sit up, one of his eyes still half-closed from being pressed so snugly to Gunther's shirt.

"I'm awake," he said, mumbling, and Gunther laughed.

"What?" Kick said, adjusting the helmet.

"Nothing. You just look –"

"Don't say it!"

"I wasn't gonna! Um, you look –" Gunther struggled to come up with a word other than 'cute.' So Kick wasn't the only one with a vocabulary deficiency. "Sleepy," Gunther said. "You look a little sleepy."

"Babies get sleepy, Gunther," Kick said, climbing off of him. "Men get tired. I'm a little tired, but. Hey. We should study."

"Sure thing, pal." Gunther sat up, readjusted his shirt, and kissed Kick on the nose. "I'll get the flashcards."

"Not flashcards again."

"What've you got against flashcards?" Gunther was distracted already, chewing on Kick's ear.

"Nothing, I just kept finding them in my sheets after – last time. Those things are sharp."

"Aw, Kick."

"What?"

"Nothing, just, you getting poked by sharp flashcards in the middle of the night. That's so – not cute." Gunther pulled back to grin at him. "Totally not cute."

Kick tried to remain petulant as they settled in to study the French Revolution, but mostly he just fell asleep, inadvertently curling against Gunther in the process. He woke up with Gunther's arm around him, and he was going to sit up, or snarl manfully, or something, but Gunther's arm fit along the length of Kick's back with such uncanny perfection, despite or maybe because of their size difference, so he closed his eyes and slept a little more.

"Hey, c'mon," Gunther whispered when Kick opened his eyes and scowled at Gunther for having the nerve to gently wake him. It had gotten dark outside. "Your mom's calling you for dinner."

"Oh – shit!" Kick catapulted away from Gunther, stumbling across the floor and smacking against the far wall, disoriented as his eyes swept the room for any sign of his mother. Gunther sat up slowly, looking glum.

"I didn't mean she was at the door right now," Gunther said. "Geez, Kick. You really – don't want them to know about us?"

"Of course not!" Kick said, grabbing his helmet with both hands, as if some monstrous wind had come to blow it away. "Gunther, God. I don't want them knowing my – business. It's embarrassing."

"See." Gunther sighed and stood, examining the cover of his history book. "I knew I embarrassed you. Maybe I always have, even as your friend –"

"Gunther, stop talking crazy," Kick said. "Just because I don't want to skip around holding your hand in front of my parents or go to some stupid feelings-sharing meeting –"

"It's not a feelings-sharing meeting!" Gunther said. "It's just a place where people can feel okay with being – different. But I'm starting to think you're not okay with it at all."

"The only thing I'm not okay with is self examination," Kick said, jabbing his palm with his finger the way his father did when he was angry and making an important point about caution. "If you want to analyze yourself and everything you're _going through_ with a bunch of other navel gazers, that's fine, but you're not dragging me there. I've got better things to do."

"Fine, Kick, fine." Gunther's voice was thick with tears as he packed up his book bag.

"Gunther, no, don't –" Kick went to Gunther and tried to get his arms around his shoulders, but Gunther batted him away easily. Kick drifted backward, gnat-like.

"No, it's good," Gunther said. He hid his face from Kick, sniffling. "Now I know how you really feel."

"You couldn't possibly have expected me to go to that meeting," Kick said. "And it's not 'cause I'm ashamed of myself, or you, or any of this." Actually, it was that, sort of, a little. "It's because I don't do meetings, Gunther, I don't do afterschool clubs, and I don't do –"

"Boyfriends," Gunther said, turning to glare at him. "Yeah, I get it."

"_Boyf_ – wha? What did you think, I was going to take you to _prom_?"

That sent Gunther running, and when Kick was left to listen to the echo of his words bouncing around his room like razor sharp ninja stars, he could hardly blame him.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Thanks so much to those who have left reviews! I love hearing that people are reading this and enjoying it. Only two more chapters after this one.

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Life without Gunther was bleaker than Kick could have possibly imagined. He was almost relieved when he got arrested again, this time for nothing more daring than jumping his skateboard through a flaming hula hoop. Since Gunther wasn't speaking to him, Kick had to use his only alternate partner in stunt-doing crime as a coordinator, and it turned out Wacky Jacky wasn't exactly as careful with fire as Gunther. Thusly, a small equipment shed belonging to the Mellowbrook State Park Association, two Bradford pear trees and fifteen azalea bushes were burned to the ground. Apparently there were quite a few industrial grade landscaping tools in that shed, and, all said, there was about fifty thousand dollars worth of damage to state property. Kick was only singed as he went through the hoop, and he hardly looked up from his lawyer's table when the judge sentenced him to three months in juvey.

"If this happens again we'll have no choice but to send you two counties over to the detention center that doesn't have the word 'junior' in it," the judge said, leaning over her bench. "Are you listening to me, Mr. Buttowski?"

"Yes, your honor."

As they cuffed him and took him away to begin his sentence, Kick's only real regret was that his mother and sister were crying. He didn't care that he was going back to juvey, where he had more friends than he did at Mellowbrook High these days, and at least while he was in there he couldn't continue to humiliate himself by trying to get Gunther to speak to him again. Apparently that comment about not taking Gunther to prom was tantamount to a friendship-ending offense, not just a kissing hiatus. Even Kendall was disgusted with Kick when he told her about it, desperate to understand what he'd done wrong.

"From where I'm sitting, I think you almost literally didn't do anything right," Kendall had said, scowling at him.

Kick had tried everything. He'd shown up at Gunther's house in full Viking garb, bearing purple roses and ready to promise Gunther he'd take him to prom and attend every single GSA meeting for the rest of high school, but before he could even get his mouth open, Gunther slammed the door in his face. Gunther had gotten mad at him before, but he'd never refused to communicate. Kick was so lost without him that the drudgery of juvey was welcome. At least he'd be surrounded by plenty of miserable company.

Maybe because life on the outside had gotten so terrible, the long stint in juvey wasn't that bad. Kick's roommate was even smaller than he was, and Kick tried to look out for him when he could, which made them something like friends. His name was Dewey and he was in for trashing his math teacher's car with a baseball bat.

"She made fun of me," Dewey explained. "I didn't get what she meant by a real number. Aren't all numbers real? Aren't they like, the realest thing there is? The opposite of unicorns and stuff? And everybody in class laughed, and she did, too. The teachers aren't supposed to be able to laugh at you, right?"

Dewey was skinny and trembly and had four older brothers who had all dropped out of school. When one of the bigger kids in the exercise yard tried to make Dewey his girlfriend, Kick dashed to his rescue, only to discover that it was unnecessary. Dewey was vicious when angered, and he'd chewed part of the kid's ear off before the guards could tear him away.

"Do you have a real girlfriend?" Dewey asked Kick later, after he'd been returned to the cell with a bruised cheek and a brand new pack of playing cards, the guards' usual consolation prize for having fought off an attack like that. "I mean, on the outside?"

"No," Kick said, thinking of Gunther. They were sitting Indian-style on Kick's bed, playing poker. "I had one, but. She. Broke up with me."

"How come?"

"I wouldn't take her to prom."

"That's lame," Dewey said.

"Yeah, I know. Prom sucks. I hate wearing suits."

"I meant that was lame of you," Dewey said. "If a girl wants to go to a dance, you take her to the dance, or she breaks up with you. Duh. Was she pretty?"

Kick considered this. Gunther had like ten different shades of blue in his eyes, if you looked close enough, and sometimes when he smiled really hard his left canine tooth would show, which made him look sweet and dangerous at the same time. The only thing Kick had liked about going to Gunther's football games was seeing him on the sidelines when he took off his helmet, his hair all sweaty, eye black smudged over his cheeks.

"Yeah, she was really pretty," Kick said. "But she hates me now."

"Just 'cause of prom?"

"Sort of. Prom became symbolic. I don't want to talk about it."

"I wish I had a girlfriend," Dewey said, mumbling. "I'm too skinny. The only people who want to date me are guys who want to treat me like a girl."

"That's not true," Kick said. "That's just juvey. Nice partial ear detachment, by the way."

"Thanks. They transferred him to the real prison. So, one down."

They gave each other a sarcastic high five.

Kick got visitors: his parents, Brianna, even Brad, and Wacky Jacky, who brought him a notebook full of love letters that she'd written while he'd been away and a big box of chocolates that got confiscated because some of them were filled with cherry liquor.

"How's Gunther doing?" Kick asked during Jacky's visit. They were in the bleak visiting room with its florescent lights and high windows, sitting across from each other at a picnic table that had been painted blue. Kick was in his pale gray juvey jumpsuit, helmet-less. Jacky was wearing hot pants and a tube top. She had filled out around eighth grade, lost the glasses and braces, and she was very popular with the boys at Mellowbrook High, though she'd always ditch whoever she was hooking up with at the moment for Kick, for reasons he still couldn't really understand.

"Gunther's okay," Jacky said. "He has this boyfriend now."

"He has _what_?"

"Yeah, Gunther's gay, apparently. Which I guess explains why he was only interested in me back when I still kinda looked like a boy. But anyway, he started going out with this kid, Laurence Grob—"

"Laurence _Grob_? Who the hell is that?"

"Some – sophomore – Kick, are you okay?"

"Yes." Kick grit his teeth and clawed his hands around the edge of the picnic table. "Why wouldn't I be okay?"

"I dunno, you just sort of look like you're about to vault over the table and strangle me? Anyway, it was a big thing on the football team, some of the guys wanted him to quit, but he wouldn't do it! You'd be proud of him. He's actually standing up for himself these days."

Kick realized that his ass had left the bench and he was in fact leaning toward Jacky like he was going to murder her. He made himself sit down again, still stiff with rage.

"Standing up for himself, huh?" he said, seething. "I guess it was Laurence's good influence. What does he look like?"

"Laurence? I dunno, he's just sort of tall and skinny. Not that cute."

"Tall?"

"Yeah, super tall. Almost as tall as Gunther. Anyway – Kick! The reason I came to visit, well, other than to give you my letters, was I had a great idea for your homecoming stunt!"

Kick pretended to listen as Jacky detailed a stunt involving her mother's boyfriend's motorcycle, the engine from her Mustang, the high school football stadium and a portable ramp that they could wheel to the stadium on game night. Kick stared the pendant on Jacky's silver necklace, a flaming tire that she'd had custom made based on her own design. He drowned out her ravings and tried to picture Gunther with some lanky sophomore who would hold his hand in the hallways, co-chair feelings-sharing meetings with him, comfort him when his teammates gave him a hard time and kiss him after his games. Gunther was kissing someone else, possibly at that very moment. Kick shouted when he felt a sudden pain in one of his fingers, and he looked down to see that he'd clawed his hands into the picnic table so tightly that he'd bent one of his nails back.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Jacky asked. She leaned over the table. "Are people in here, ah, giving you a hard time?"

"No," Kick said. Every time he got of juvey she questioned him in a particular way that made him wonder if she didn't get off on the idea that someone might have made him his girlfriend. She did always like seeing Kick get hurt. "I gotta go," Kick said. "Thanks for the – letters."

"But what do you think about my idea?" Jacky asked, bouncing on the bench. "For your homecoming stunt? Get it, because it'll be the homecoming football game, and Kick Buttowski's homecoming!"

Kick opened his mouth to tell her that she was out of her mind, that a stunt like that wouldn't only get him sent back to jail, it might actually kill him. He closed his mouth again when he realized that he didn't really care if either of those things happened, not if Gunther had moved on for good. What did he have left for him in Mellowbrook without Gunther? Jacky and her persistent offers to let him do whatever he wanted to her? He stood from the picnic table, his head bent.

"It sounds like a great idea," he said. "Get everything ready for me, okay? We'll do it just like you said."

For the remainder of his sentence, Kick had nightmares about crashing a motorcycle into a wall of fire. His only regret, even in the dreams, was that Gunther had to see him die, standing on the sidelines with his football helmet under his arm, his face twisted with horror and grief. When Kick woke up and remembered his rage over Gunther's new boyfriend, he'd think: _Good_. Maybe Gunther would appreciate him when he was dead. Maybe he would never get over it, and maybe darling Laurence's attempts to console him would be fruitless. Kick would come back as a ghost just so he could hear Gunther spend the rest of his life begging for forgiveness.

Not that he was bitter or anything.

Dewey was released before Kick, and Kick spent the last two weeks in juvey with no roommate. He was bored and antsy, and sometimes he fell asleep in the middle of playing solitaire on his mattress, waking up to cards that he'd scattered in his sleep, his eyes getting wet when he thought about Gunther's flashcards, how he would wake up and pull the word TREPIDATION from the waistband of his underwear.

Kick's parents both came to pick him up on the day he got released, and they were quiet on the drive back to Mellowbrook. Usually they were bursting with instructions for him after he got out of juvey, making him promise never to do that to them again, but they seemed to have realized that their threats and warnings weren't being heard. Kick told himself he should be relieved that they'd given up, but he spent the whole ride home chewing on the tip of his tongue, telling himself to get a grip, be a man, and stop letting the sobs that were forming in his gut get almost far up enough his throat to be heard. He swallowed them all down successfully and went to his room as soon as they were home, shutting the door behind him. It was no use: Brianna was already there, sitting on his bed, waiting for him.

"Welcome home, you dumb shit," she said, and then she started crying hard. Kick groaned, but he was grateful to her, because somehow her tears had erased the threat of his own. He went to the bed and hugged her, letting her cry on his shoulder for awhile.

"You're too skinny," he said, because he could feel her ribs.

"Oh, shut up." She sat back and wiped at her face, sniffling. "Kick, everything's horrible. Mom and Dad fight all the time."

"About me?"

"I don't know," she said, and he could tell she was lying. Of course they fought about Kick; he'd heard it before. Dad blamed Mom for letting this go on for as long as she had. The stunts, the recklessness, the delusions of grandeur. She blamed him for putting an end to her own reckless days.

"Jacky told me about Gunther," Kick said, because he had to talk to someone, and he was in no mood for Kendall. Brianna shook her head.

"She shouldn't have done that."

"Well, she didn't know – you haven't told anyone, have you?"

"Kick, you're still worried about that?" Brianna groaned and stood from the bed. "No, I haven't told anyone. Your precious reputation is intact. In fact, you're the most popular kid in school. Everyone's been talking about how you're turning into a hardened criminal."

"Really?" Kick said, and Brianna glowered at him when his eyes lit up at the thought.

"Congratulations," she said. "I guess you got everything you ever wanted. You're notorious, and Gunther has someone else to kiss. He won't bother you anymore."

"Gunther can do whatever he wants," Kick said, though he didn't actually think that should be allowed at all, because Gunther belonged to him back when the world made sense, and did everything Kick wanted. "I just wish he'd be my friend again. I don't know what to do, Brianna. I tried apologizing, I dressed up in a fucking Viking costume –"

"That's ridiculous, Kick!" Brianna said, throwing her arms out. "He doesn't want you to make a fool of yourself – you just think that's what he wants! And until you figure that out, he's not going to want to get anywhere near you."

"Have you been talking to him?" Kick asked, aghast.

"None of your business," Brianna said, and she stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

So now even his sister was on Gunther's side. Kick leaned down onto his stomach and hid his face in his pillow, moaning. At least he had his helmet back, snug on his head and blocking out the world while he lay face down in bed. He had his helmet, and he had Jacky, he supposed, if he wanted her. He decided he'd better figure out how to, because Brianna was wrong. His only chance of getting Gunther back would be to make him jealous.

When he returned to school, Kick walked the halls feeling like everyone was staring at him, something he used to enjoy. Now he had to wonder if they were staring because he'd spent the whole summer in juvey or if Gunther had told his friends in the GSA that Kick used to kiss him after school. Kick didn't think he would do that, but he still felt stripped whenever he heard girls giggling at their lockers, sure that they were talking about his not stunt-related exploits.

He didn't actually set eyes on Gunther and the famous Laurence Grob until his third day back at school. They were down by the vending machines when Kick was on his way to the boys' locker room to dress out for gym. At first, Kick hardly recognized Gunther: he looked taller, he'd cut his hair short, and his arms were suddenly the size of tree trunks, as if he'd done nothing but lift weights since Kick got incarcerated. Since all the football team did during the summer was train, Kick supposed that probably wasn't far from the truth. Laurence, meanwhile, was unimpressive, though he was indeed tall. He was also a little stooped, had the sort of light brown hair that almost looked gray, and his nose was sort of big. Staring at them, fuming, Kick recalled now many times Gunther had kissed Kick's nose and told him how little and cute it was. Kick used to snarl at him for that, but he would do anything to hear Gunther call him cute now.

Gunther was smiling at Laurence, his hand cupped around Laurence's bony shoulder, fingers drumming against it. Kick was staring in a not subtle manner, something that he'd gotten accustomed to doing in juvey, where being able to stare openly meant things about your toughness. When Gunther looked up, Kick stumbled backward, lanced through the heart by the sight of Gunther's eyes. He hadn't forgotten them, but he'd forgotten how they had this ability to blast him backward and pull him close at the same time. He knew Gunther had seen him, and pretended not to hear his name when Gunther called out to him. Vision tunneling, Kick barreled out into the school's outer courtyard, which was empty, the warning bell ringing inside. He hoped Gunther wouldn't follow him, didn't know what he would possibly say to him now, but when he heard the school door slamming open with Gunther's trademark gusto, he was so relieved that he stopped where he stood, his hands curling into fists and his eyes pinching shut. He wasn't going to cry or anything. No way. He was Kick Buttowski, survivor of juvenile hall, fearless daredevil, and he had no feelings that couldn't be thrashed like pavement and left behind.

"Kick!" Gunther said, and Kick felt like he would shatter with relief when Gunther grabbed his shoulders, spun him around, and wholly picked him up off the ground, hugging him hard. Kick let out his breath slowly, trying to keep his emotions in check, his fingers closing tightly around the hem of Gunther's varsity jacket. Gunther's chest was a little firmer than he remembered, but still pillowy.

"I was so worried about you!" Gunther said when he put Kick down. Kick didn't want to be put down, and if they weren't in sight of the school he would have climbed Gunther until he was in his arms again.

"You didn't visit," Kick said. He was still holding on to the hem of Gunther's jacket, and he knew he should let go, but he couldn't seem to make his fingers unclench.

"I didn't think you'd want me to," Gunther said. His eyes were a little wet, his hands heavy on Kick's shoulders. "Are you okay? Did they hurt you? Was it terrible? Jacky said you were fine, but she's crazy, I wasn't sure if I could believe her-"

"You're not mad at me anymore?" Kick asked, reeling. Gunther sniffled and shrugged.

"I guess not," he said. "I mean, I've talked about it a lot with Laurence, and he says I've got to let my anger go, so-"

"You talked about me with _Laurence_?" Kick said, jumping out of Gunther's grip. Gunther's expression darkened, and he shook his head.

"No, Kick. I talked about the guy who broke my heart. He doesn't know that it was you. Nobody does, except for Bree, and I guess Kendall, since you told her." Gunther huffed and looked down at his feet. "I'd never tell anyone about you without your permission."

"I know," Kick said, and he felt terrible for thinking that Gunther might have. He was loyal to a fault, always. "I'm just – this guy – _Laurence_. A sophomore, Gunther?"

"Who told you he's a sophomore? He's a junior this year, and he's really mature for his age."

"Oh, I'm sure he is. Did you guys spend the whole summer demonstrating your maturity on each other?"

"What does that even mean?" Gunther asked, scowling. "Look, Kick, I knew you'd be jealous, but-"

"_Jealous_? Jealous, what, of him? Um, no. I just think you could do better. But whatever. It's your business, and frankly I don't want to hear anything about it."

"Well, I wasn't volunteering to tell you anything about it," Gunther said, still frowning. "Though I kind of hoped we could still be friends." His expression softened and his lip shook. "I – I miss you, Kick."

Kick had to turn around, because if he kept looking at Gunther he was going to cry for real. He'd been holding it back since that car ride home from juvey, and it would be a waste to let it go after all that work, his bottom lip raw from being chewed on. He allowed himself one thought about how Gunther would kiss him with extra care if he knew this, moaning with sympathy for Kick's sore lip and licking it in soft little passes of his tongue.

"I missed you, too," Kick said when he regained his voice. He hoped Gunther was still back there, because he'd gone silent and Kick had lost the ability to feel it when he was near, the way the air would become more welcoming to the weight of him, not just oxygen for breathing but a sky that he could fly through. He turned slowly, and Gunther was there, smiling, though he looked sad.

"We can still be friends, then?" Gunther said.

"Yeah," Kick said. He made himself smile, too. "I need someone who knows what he's doing to help me with my stunts. Jacky is a disaster."

"No kidding," Gunther said. He toyed with the wrinkled spot on his jacket where Kick had clutched it. "She said she brought you love letters."

Kick opened his mouth to tell Gunther that she had, and that Kick hadn't even attempted to read them, because Jacky's ravings about him still scared the crap out of him. Then he remembered his plan, and the way Gunther had been smiling at Laurence when Kick saw them by the vending machines.

"Yeah, I decided to finally throw her a bone," Kick said, trying to adopt a strutting posture. "I mean, she's pretty hot now. And I decided, you know. I'm not, uh. I'm not going to join that club with the pink flyer, if you know what I mean."

Gunther nodded, and said nothing for awhile. His new haircut made him look older, and Kick wanted to run his palm over those short blond spikes.

"Why'd you ever kiss me, then?" Gunter asked, staring at the pavement. "I wasn't, I mean – I don't remember it this way, but I didn't _force_ myself on you, did I?"

"Gunther, no!" Kick was devastated by the idea that Gunther worried that he had, and he almost blurted the truth, which was that Kick had lived to kiss him before juvey, that it was like flipping upside down while flying through the air, everything he loved about danger and something else, too, the thing that made him feel warm and safe and small, that thing that scared him way more than the thrill seeking part had.

"I just got confused," Kick said. "We both did. Right?"

"No," Gunther said. He looked up at Kick, showing him everything he was feeling, still unafraid of the things that made Kick want to turn and run. "I wasn't confused, Kick. I was in love with you. Big time. I had been since we were kids."

"Was?" Kick said. He felt like his skin was peeling off, the way it did in the nightmares about fire that he'd been having since the flaming hula hoop incident.

"I gotta go," Gunther said, walking backward. "I'm late for class."

"Gunther, wait," Kick said, but when Gunther stopped walking Kick didn't know what to say next. Why had he said that about Jacky? What the hell was he thinking? Gunther was standing there waiting to hear that Kick was in love with him, too, or that he wasn't. There was really nothing else to say.

"You don't have to tell me, Kick," Gunther said, his voice shaking. "I know. It's okay. I just want to be friends again. I – I gotta go, Kick, I just have to -"

Gunther took off then. Kick had forgotten how fast he could be when he wanted to. The late bell rang, but Kick didn't move, just stood there wondering what Gunther meant by _I__know_. He either knew that Kick loved him or thought that he didn't. Kick wasn't even sure which was worse.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Just one more chapter after this! Thanks to those who have reviewed - looking forward to hearing what you guys think of the developments in this chapter.

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Pretending to be interested in Jacky and like everything was okay with Gunther took up most of Kick's energy, and what little was left was devoted to listening to Jacky's plans for the big homecoming stunt. Kick heard her talking about his forthcoming glory as if he was trapped beneath miles of dark water, and he couldn't imagine actually doing any of the things she had planned for him, but he also couldn't imagine not doing them. He felt like he was between two blurred and distorted versions of his life, unwilling to completely reside in either of them.

He spent his free hours in Jacky's bedroom, trying to get interested in at least the physical side of what she offered as a companion, but his body was uncooperative. Jacky hardly seemed to notice, or maybe didn't want to make him feel bad about it, and she was content to sidle up to him and play with his hair while she raved about whatever. She was just as enthusiastic about cuddling as Gunther, but she wasn't very good at it. She fidgeted constantly, and she had bony shoulders, lots of sharp angles. She did have one quite pillowy area, but Kick didn't want to bury his face there, which meant things about him that he could no longer deny, though it was too late to tell Gunther or even Jacky so.

Some afternoons he spent with Gunther, when Laurence wasn't around. They didn't go to Gunther's room or to Kick's, just walked around the park and made vague plans about stunts without ever actually doing anything about them. They didn't talk about Laurence, or Jacky, or what would happen to Kick if he actually did another stunt that wasn't quiet enough to be rendered pointless. Kick knew Gunther was thinking about all of that, too, but for once he seemed as intent to hide his feelings as Kick was, and they talked more about schoolwork than they ever had.

"What'd you get on that vocab quiz?" Kick asked one afternoon when they were lingering at the park as the sun went down, Gunther sitting on a swing that was squeaking under the weight of him and Kick standing with his hands in his pockets, kicking rocks out of the sandy swing set enclosure.

"Um, a ninety-two, I think?" Gunther said, looking up from the sand he'd been toeing. He was holding the chains on the swing with both hands, and the fact that he way way too big for the thing just made Kick want to kiss him that much more than he usually did. It was eating at Kick's stomach, all the things he wanted and couldn't have twisted up there in a painful knot.

"Cool," Kick said after an awkward silence, and they looked away from each other again. Kick sighed and stared at the horizon, the last of the sunset-orange fading to dark blue. He'd have to go home and eat an awkward dinner with his family, everybody quiet except for Brianna, who was determined to act like everything was normal when they were all together.

"Kick, you know, you don't have to do me the favor of hanging out with me," Gunther said, suddenly angry, all of those feelings that he'd stuffed back down bursting out of him. Kick looked at him, wide-eyed.

"What?"

"I mean, obviously you'd rather be with Jacky," Gunther said, standing. "Obviously you're bored. It's okay. Maybe we're just too different now –"

"Maybe you just wish you were with Laurence," Kick said, panic ratcheting around in his chest like a mouse in a maze, trying to find a way out.

"At least Laurence talks to me!"

"I'm talking to you!"

"Yeah, about vocab quizzes. Since when do you care about quiz scores?" Gunther groaned and turned away from Kick, pulling his hands through his hair. It was getting longer, but it was still shorter than he'd ever kept it when they were kids, and Kick still wanted to touch it, to see what it felt like now.

"What do you want me to talk about?" Kick asked. "You want me to tell juvey anecdotes? About how my friend had to chew a guy's ear to shreds to stop him from tearing his clothes off?"

"God, are you serious?" Gunther turned back to him, and he looked so sad, which was why Kick never wanted talk about this stuff. "Kick, I. That didn't –"

"No, it didn't happen to me! It wasn't even that bad, most of the time. But that's how I spent my summer, while you were skipping around with Laurence, so excuse me if I don't want to relive the experience."

"Don't say skipping around," Gunther said, pointing a finger at Kick. "Be mad at me if you want, but don't act like a bigot."

"Like a – Jesus, you know what? Maybe we are too different now."

"That sucks, Kick," Gunther said, shaking his head. "Because you seem really unhappy."

"Right, and you're just as happy as a fucking clam," Kick said. His fists were curled, but he knew he'd never actually hit Gunther, or vice versa. They were up in each other's faces, anyway, as much as possible with their height difference. Kick could smell Gunther's gum.

"You think I'm happy like this?" Gunther said.

"Well, with Laurence, yeah, you seem pretty happy."

"You're so stupid!" Gunther said, and that hurt, badly, because he'd never actually insulted Kick, no matter how much Kick was asking for it. Kick turned away, and Gunther groaned. He grabbed Kick's shoulders but didn't turn him around.

"You don't want to be my friend anymore," Gunther said, still holding him. "Say it."

"No! I do. I just want things to go back to the way they were before."

"Yeah, well, that's not going to happen, Kick. And I wouldn't want that, anyway. I like who I am now. I just want you to feel the same way."

"I still like you," Kick said, mumbling, the word _love_ spiraling through his head like a taunt.

"I was talking about you," Gunther said. He gave Kick's arms a squeeze, and Kick let his eyes fall shut, because Gunther couldn't see his face, and wouldn't be able to read it in his pained expression, how much he'd missed this: being held tightly by Gunther. "I want you to like who you are," Gunther said. "You used to. That was my favorite thing about you. You knew exactly who you were and what you wanted, and nobody was going to tell you otherwise."

"Yeah, well, all they do anymore is tell me otherwise," Kick said. "And they lock me in jail for it, too. So forgive me if I'm not as enthusiastic about it as I used to be."

Gunther turned him around then, and Kick tried to make his face hard. He couldn't, because Gunther's was so soft, and he smelled good, and his hands were on Kick's shoulders.

"I know it's been hard," Gunther said. "It's been hard for me, too. You think I had a good summer? All I could think about was how they'd locked you away and how I hadn't even let you apologize, how you probably hated me—"

"I could never hate you," Kick said, shaking his head. He wanted to put his hands on Gunther's chest, or wrap around him completely and hide his face against the pound of Gunther's heartbeat. "Never," he said, letting Gunther look all the way into his eyes, where he'd see this was true.

"The only reason Laurence and I started hanging out was because he could tell I was miserable and he wanted to be there for me," Gunther said. Kick scowled.

"He probably had his eye on you the whole time."

"So what if he did, Kick? Don't I deserve that? Somebody who wants to be with me?"

Kick had to look away from him then, or risk letting him see everything else that was true, that Kick wanted him more than Laurence or anyone else ever could.

"I still say you could do better than him," Kick said. "He's like a noodle with arms and legs."

"Don't be mean. And don't even get me started on your girlfriend."

"Jacky's not really my girlfriend," Kick said, mumbling.

"Well, whatever she is. Your person who you make out with after school. Jacky, Kick? You could have any girl in school, and you pick _her_?"

"I can't have any girl in school," Kick said, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, you could! Well, except Kendall, maybe. She's too smart for your crap."

"My crap?"

"Yeah," Gunther said. He backed away from Kick, shaking his head. "Like, I wonder if Jacky knows she's not your girlfriend? I'm gonna guess no, since she goes around bragging to everyone that she is."

"That's terrific," Kick muttered, humiliated by the thought. "But, no, um. Mostly she's just helping me with this stunt."

Gunther looked devastated, and Kick realized too late that this would hurt him more than the idea of Kick having romantic adventures with someone else.

"A stunt?" Gunther said, weakly.

"Yeah, but – it's kind of crazy." Kick had been wanting to tell Gunther about Jacky's insane idea for a homecoming stunt since he first heard her describing it in the juvey visiting room, if only to have an excuse not to do it. If Gunther knew how risky the stunt was, not just legally but physically, he would miss the homecoming game just so he could lock Kick up somewhere and keep him from doing it. That was what Kick wanted much more than doing the stunt, even if he'd had a guarantee that he would survive it unscathed: he wanted to hide somewhere, away from the roaring crowd, with Gunther's arms around him. He wanted Gunther to not let him go.

"Well, you guys have fun," Gunther said, starting to cry now, backing away. "Just don't. Don't let her set anything on fire. She can't, ah. I don't trust her not to hurt you."

"Jacky's not even remotely capable of hurting me," Kick said, though he knew Gunther was talking about the fact that she might end up burning him alive, not breaking his heart.

"I gotta go," Gunther said, sniffling and wiping his face with the sleeves of his letterman jacket. "I'll see you around, Kick."

Kick watched him go, waiting for him to change his mind, knowing that he wouldn't. Gunther was too smart for Kick's crap. He and Kendall had that in common, and Gunther was wrong about the rest of the girls at school, even if they did enjoy gossiping about how dangerous little Kick Buttowski had grown up to be. There was only one person who wanted to get close to him anymore, and she was the one who was probably going to end up setting him on fire.

Kick and Gunther stopped hanging out altogether after that. Kick would see Gunther sometimes in the halls at school, with Laurence, and Laurence might dare a look in his direction, ducking his eyes away when he saw the death stare Kick was giving him, but Gunther pretended not to notice he was there. He didn't look happy, and the small comfort took in Gunther's unhappiness just made him feel terrible. Jacky continued making grand plans for Kick's homecoming stunt, and Kick paid less and less attention to what was coming out of her mouth. He just nodded and lay there on his back in her bed, trying not to shudder when she touched him.

The week of homecoming arrived, and Brad came home for his fall break, lugging three damp bags of laundry into the foyer. Kick was on the couch with Brianna, staring at some teen soap opera that she watched every Thursday night. Their father was staying late at work, as had become his habit, and their mother was reading upstairs in her bedroom, where she usually hid until dinner.

"Hey dillweed, butt face," Brad greeted them when he walked into the living room, his hands in the pockets of his fake leather jacket. He stared at them for awhile, frowning. "What the hell is wrong with you guys?" he asked.

"Nothing," Brianna said sharply, her eyes still on the television. "Move. I'm watching my show."

Brad turned toward the television and frowned. "Dillweed?" he said, nudging Kick's leg with his boot. "Why are you watching Gossip Girl?"

"I'm not," Kick said. "I'm just sitting here."

"Kick is depressed," Brianna said.

"Brianna!"

"What? Maybe Mom and Dad are too caught up in their own crap to notice, but I have!"

"Why is dillweed depressed?" Brad asked, frowning more deeply. "And what's this crap that Mom and Dad are caught up in?"

"I'm not depressed," Kick said, glaring at Brianna. The last person he wanted to talk about this with was Brad, and she should know that. She sighed.

"You'll see," Brianna said to Brad. "About Mom and Dad, I mean. We're having a family dinner tonight," she said, elbowing Kick.

"Well, duh," Brad said. "Mom is making my favorite, to honor my homecoming. Meatloaf." He made a _cha-ching_ motion with his arm.

Kick got up from the couch, throwing down the pillow he'd been holding and heading for the stairs. Brad slapped the back of his head as he walked past.

"Clarence, what the hell?" he said. "Where are you going?"

"To the bathroom, if that's okay with you." Kick's stomach was pinching up just from the sound of the word _homecoming_. Mellowbrook High's homecoming game was the following night. Gunther would be there, on the field, playing offensive tackle, and Jacky would be there with her ramps and her illegally souped-up motorcycle. Kick didn't know where he would be tomorrow night, still hadn't decided if he'd rather chicken out and lose the last person who actually admired him or go through with it and lose his freedom, and possibly his life.

Kick's father arrived home an hour later, and everyone was called down to dinner. Brad was freshly showered and in a great mood, doing most of the talking as Kick and Brianna sat listlessly at the dining room table, watching their parents set the table and lay out the food.

"I'm pretty much making straight A's," Brad said, almost definitely lying, his mouth full of dinner roll. "So I'm still the brains of the family, in case anyone was wondering."

"That's nice, honey," Kick's mother said, not really listening. She had her elbows on the table, and she hadn't touched her food yet. She was looking down at the other end of the table, where Kick's father had adopted a similar posture.

"Kids," he said. "Now that you're all here, there's something we need to tell you."

Kick looked across the table at Brianna. They both pretty much knew what was coming, but she still looked stunned, and Kick was pretty sure he did, too. Kick looked down at his plate when his parents started talking about how his dad was going to be moving out for awhile, and how it was not necessarily permanent, and how it was nobody's fault. Kick knew that wasn't true. There had been one major source of stress in the household for the past few years, and it began and ended with a 'K.'

After dinner, Kick went to bed without bothering with his homework. He didn't even put the lights on or get undressed, just took his shoes off and lay down on top of the blankets, staring at the ceiling. When he heard a soft knock on his bedroom door he was sure it would be Brianna. He didn't answer, didn't feel like sharing any feelings or listening to her try to convince him that this wasn't his fault. The door opened anyway, and it wasn't Brianna, it was Brad, still wearing that stupid jacket.

"Hey, dillweed," he said, whispering. He left the light off and pulled something from inside his jacket: a bottle. "Want some?"

"What is it?" Kick asked, sitting up.

"Something a little stronger than Cheetah Chug. I figure we could both use some after that delightful family meeting."

Kick knew Brad was upset, too. He hadn't even finished his meatloaf, just sat there looking angry, pushing pieces of it around on his plate. Brad sat next to him on the bed, and Kick accepted the bottle when he passed it over, wincing and choking when he drank from it. He knew it was alcohol, and he'd never tried any before, but he hadn't expected anything that so closely resembled the smell of lighter fluid. Brad laughed and drank some himself.

"It takes some getting used to," he said. "But it will make you feel better. Trust me."

"Jesus," Kick said, coughing and wiping his mouth with his sleeve as the liquor burned down through his chest, lighting small fires there. He reached out again, not wanting Brad to think he was a wimp. "Give me some more."

"Atta boy," Brad said, passing the bottle back to him.

They drank in silence for awhile, the fires that the booze had started inside Kick warming him until the feeling was nice, like flying through the air without actually having to move. He slumped back against his pillows, feeling a little dizzy, but it wasn't bad, the kind of disorientation he used to crave, when he was getting it from back flips, or Gunther's hands sliding over him.

"I haven't seen you since you busted out of the clink," Brad said.

"I didn't bust out," Kick said. "My sentence was up. They released me."

"Yeah, dillweed, that was a joke. So, like." Brad thumped the bottle against his knee, staring at the floor of Kick's bedroom. "Was it pretty terrible? In there?"

"It was fine," Kick said. "I survived. That's what I do. That's my thing. I survive." He hadn't really meant to say that, because it was the kind of thing that would make Brad laugh at him, but Brad didn't laugh, and Kick was glad he'd said it. Talking felt easier than it normally did, and he found that he wanted to say a lot more. "So obviously Mom and Dad are splitting up because of me," he said.

"Don't be stupid, Kick. The world doesn't revolve around you."

"When they fight, it's about me."

"Always? Every single time? You're there for all their fights?"

"Don't try to make me feel better," Kick said, reaching for the bottle again. "Not with lies, anyway. You know and I know that I'm their problem. Maybe I should just take off for good. Tonight," he added, thinking of the homecoming stunt.

"I knew you'd be a dramatic drunk," Brad said, snatching the bottle back when Kick was in mid-sip. "But listen to yourself. You're gonna run away from home because things aren't going your way for once?"

"For _once_?"

"You got away with a lot for a long time, Kick. You were like, invincible. Guess what, asshole? Some of us never got to be that kid, and everybody has to grow up. Remember when Brianna thought she was the hottest shit on the planet? Now she pukes up her meals because she thinks she's fat."

"What?" Kick leaned off of his pillows too quickly, his stomach lurching as it tried to catch up. "What the hell are you talking about? She told you that?"

"No, but I've heard her. She's worried about you being depressed, and I'm the only one who bothers to notice her starving herself, and I'm not even here-"

"I've noticed!" Kick said. The room was spinning, his head floating above his body, which had suddenly grown way too heavy, sluggish. "Her, she – her ribs, you can feel them, and the only thing she eats are those vegetable shakes-"

"Yeah? Well, congratulations, brother of the year. What are you doing about it? Moping around because Mom and Dad have the nerve to get upset when you get sent to fucking prison? Wake up, Kick. We've all got problems."

"You don't understand," Kick said, shaking his head. He wasn't drunk enough to tell Brad about Gunther, but he wasn't going to let him go on thinking that Kick didn't care about anyone but himself, even if that was the way he'd been acting. "You've got no idea what I'm going through."

"Who the hell does? You don't talk to anyone. Brianna told me you're not even friends with Gunther anymore."

"That's none of your business," Kick said. He grabbed for the bottle, but Brad held it out of his reach.

"She said you have some creepy girlfriend who helped you get arrested," Brad said. "I hear she's pretty hot, but Kick, it's not worth it. You need to get your shit together. If Mom and Dad are really splitting up, Bree is gonna take it the hardest, and she's already a mess. You're the one who's here, and you're the one who's going to have to take care of her. Don't make it the other way around, because she can't handle that shit, and she doesn't deserve it. Be a fucking man, Clarence." He gave Kick the bottle again, and scoffed as he watched him gulp from it.

"You want me to be a man?" Kick shoved the bottle back into Brad's hands. "Okay. How about I start by kicking your ass?"

"Wow," Brad said, standing. "Is this the way you treat everybody who bothers to try to get through to you? No wonder you don't have any friends anymore."

"Get out of my fucking room!"

"With pleasure, dillweed. Jesus, sleep it off. I'll talk to you in the morning."

Brad left, and Kick pulled himself up from the bed, seething. He'd intended to go after Brad and beat the crap out of him, though Brad was still twice his size and still fought dirty whenever he got the chance, but the room was swaying, and he could barely take two steps before he was dropping down to the carpet on his knees. He gritted his teeth and tucked his chin to his chest, punching the ground. Brad was wrong, and an asshole. It was easy for him to say, all that stuff about Brianna; he was off at college, what the hell did he know, what did he care? Kick punched the floor again, and again, and realized that he didn't just want to kick Brad's ass, he wanted to beat up this whole house, the four walls that had kept him prisoner since he'd lost the right to fly through the neighborhood with Gunther at his side, catching the whole thing on tape.

"Gunther," he said, slumping over onto the floor. He still felt too heavy, and moving even a little made his stomach lurch, but he was tired of lying around like a slug, letting things happen to him and doing nothing about it. He missed a lot of things about the way his life used to be, but none of them came close to how much he missed Gunther. He pulled himself up off the floor with a groan and stumbled toward his bedroom door. It was late, and he was wasted, but tomorrow was homecoming, and if he was going to do anything about the mess he'd made, he had to do it right away.

Sneaking out of the house was easier than he'd expected. Brad was blasting music from his bedroom, which provided a good cover as Kick carefully crept out the front door, into the yard. As soon as the cold night air hit him he felt partially revived, and he took off running, the wind burning against his cheeks. It felt like it had been weeks since he'd even moved, though he'd been getting up and going to school, going to Jacky's house, going through the motions. None of it counted for anything without Gunther.

Kick was almost drunk enough to pound on Gunther's door without sparing a thought for what his parents would do if they found Kick outside at this hour on a school night, but he caught himself at the last second and stumbled around to the side of the yard that Gunther's bedroom window looked out on. He rummaged around in the bushes, found a suitably sized pine cone and threw it against Gunther's window. Nothing happened. Finding the pine cone again took some time, but when he did he pitched it at the window again, harder this time. He was trying to figure out where it had bounced off to this time when he heard the window opening.

"Kick?" Gunther said, whispering. He was rubbing his face, shirtless in his flannel sleep pants. Kick stood there in the yard, swaying and beaming up at him. Gunther's hair looked especially fluffy, and Kick knew from experience that it would crackle with static if Kick rubbed his hand through it. "What are you doing?" Gunther asked in a hiss when Kick just stood there smiling like an idiot.

"Gunther," Kick said, trying to project his whisper like a shout. "Hey! How are you? Are you good? You look good."

"Kick, it's like three in the morning," Gunther said, groaning. "Are you – are you _drunk_?"

"Um, a little. My parents are getting divorced. Brianna is puking, and Brad hates me, and Jacky is gonna kill me for real this time, but it's okay, Gunther, it's okay, because I still have you. Don't I? I mean, if I really need you? And I think I really need you, okay, right now, I just really, really-"

"Shh, Kick, okay," Gunther said. "Stay right there. I'll come down and get you."

Kick lost his balance when Gunther was out of sight, and laughed at himself deliriously when his ass hit Gunther's lawn. He leaned back until he was spread eagle in the grass, staring up at the stars. They were fogged over with thin clouds, dim and far away. Kick grinned when his view of the stars was replaced by Gunther's concerned face. He was wearing a t-shirt now, holding a coat.

"Kick, what are you doing? It's like zero degrees out here." Gunther helped Kick up to a seated position and wrapped the coat around him. It was Gunther's, and it was huge on Kick. It felt big enough to live inside like a house, and he tried to pull Gunther into it with him.

"Hey, um, I love you," Kick said, letting his cheek press to Gunther's, his eyes getting wet just from the smell of Gunther's skin. "It's supposed to be this big secret, but I don't even remember why, so you should know. I love you, not Jacky, God, never her, and you don't love that bean pole guy, do you? You love me more, right?"

"Kick, you smell like a wino," Gunther said, lifting him up into his arms with a groan. "God, and you're shivering. Where have you been? Come inside before you freeze to death."

"You love me, you do," Kick said, mumbling deliriously, his eyes closed on Gunther's shoulder as Gunther carried him inside. "I know you do," he said. "I can feel it. I can smell it. I can't even be alive if you don't love me, and I'm alive, so you must love me, unless I'm dead. Sometimes I kinda feel like I died and no one told me."

"Shh," Gunther said, petting the back of Kick's neck. "You have to be quiet while I carry you inside, okay? Kick? Or my parents will hear-"

"Okay, yeah, shh, I can be quiet."

He fell asleep while Gunther carried him up the stairs, which made staying quiet easy. When Gunther put him in his bed, still wrapped in the coat, Kick woke a little, moaning. Gunther's face loomed over his, worried and exhausted, and Kick grabbed Gunther's ears when he started to move away.

"Gunther?" he said

"Yeah, Kick?" Gunther's voice was small, hopeful, and Kick wanted to give him everything, but every time he put his hands out he found they were empty.

"I need to throw up," he said.

"Okay – wait – I'll -"

Gunther raced across the room to get the trash can that sat near his desk, and almost made it back to the bed in time. He moaned and caught Kick's helmet before it could tumble into the trash can along with his puke, and Kick was vaguely aware of Gunther setting his helmet on the bedside table, where it would be safe. He spit into the trash can and let Gunther smooth his hair off his forehead.

"All done?" Gunther asked, his voice still soft and small.

"I think so," Kick said. He groaned and wiped his mouth. "Gunther, ah, I'm sorry-"

"I know," Gunther said. "Shh, just. Hang on, I'll get you some water."

Kick had forgotten how cozy Gunther's bed was in the middle of the night, just beneath a big window that the moonlight spilled in through. He still felt hazy and out of control, but by the time Gunther returned with a glass of water, the room had stopped spinning. Kick let Gunther prop him up and help him hold the glass while he drank.

"Thanks," Kick said, breathless when the glass was empty. He flopped down to the bed with a moan. "I love you," he said, his eyes closed, because he was afraid to see Gunther's face and know for sure that hearing that didn't mean much anymore. "Did you hear me, before?"

"I heard, Kick," Gunther said. He helped Kick out of the coat and under the blankets. At some point, Kick's shoes had been removed; Kick didn't remember that part. "Is what you said about your parents true?" Gunther asked as he settled down beside Kick, snuggling up against his side. Kick moaned and rolled over to throw himself at Gunther, grabbing as much of him as he could and holding on tight.

"It's true," Kick said, mumbling, his face buried in Gunther's chest. He could hear Gunther's heartbeat, and it made his eyes wet again. "And it's my fault."

"Oh, Kick. You know that's not true."

"All I've done is mess everything up. Gunther, God, can I just stay here? I don't care what happens, I just want to stay right here, please, let me stay here."

"Of course you can stay," Gunther whispered, kissing Kick's forehead. He thought Kick was only asking to stay for the night. Kick meant forever. He never wanted to move away from the steady pound of Gunther's heartbeat, the safety of his arms, the fortress of blankets that had been warmed by his body.

He didn't mean to fall asleep, had so much more to say, but when he opened his eyes again the bluish hue of dawn was glowing through the window behind him. His head was pounding and his eyelids felt too fat, achy. He moaned and closed his eyes again, rubbing his face on Gunther's chest as he squirmed closer to him, his legs sliding against Gunther's under the blankets. Gunther was fast asleep, his arm like a fallen ceiling beam across Kick's shoulder, pinning him in place. Kick didn't mind, and he was quickly asleep again, despite his headache.

When he woke again, Gunther was still beside him, but he was awake now, propped up on his elbow and pressing the back of his hand to Kick's forehead as if to check his temperature. Sunlight was pouring through the window, afternoon bright, and it made Kick squint and pinch his eyes shut again, his head throbbing with pain.

"Are you finally awake?" Gunther asked when Kick clutched at him, pulling the collar of Gunther's t-shirt over his eyes to try to block the sunlight that seemed to seep in past his closed eyelids.

"No," Kick said. His voice was grittier than normal, and he couldn't entirely remember how he'd gotten into Gunther's bed, but he was endlessly, enormously glad to be there. "What time is it?"

"Almost noon."

"Noon!" Kick squinted up at Gunther, his eyes watering from the burn of the sunlight. "But it's a school day. It's homecoming! They won't let you play tonight if you don't go to school."

"I don't care," Gunther said, laughing. "My parents left for work, and there was no way I was leaving you here alone." He ran his fingers through Kick's hair and down the back of his neck. Kick moaned and pressed his face to Gunther's neck, closing his eyes again.

"But you love football," Kick said, feeling terrible.

"I like football," Gunther said with a shrug. "I love you."

"You do?" Kick lifted his eyes again, and Gunther smiled.

"Don't act like you didn't know the whole time," Gunther said.

"I – but – what about Laurence?"

"Laurence is my friend, Kick. We met through the GSA. Everyone at school assumes we must be boyfriends just because we're both - you know, but that's stupid. Sometimes I think Laurence wishes we were, but I just – I couldn't. Not while I was still thinking about you."

"I couldn't with Jacky, either," Kick said. He sat up on his elbow, the pounding in his head intensifying. He gritted his teeth and ignored it. "Do you remember when we were kids and she made that life-sized Kick doll?"

"Yeah," Gunther said, wincing.

"That's basically what I was when I was with her. I mean in terms of, uh. Physical responses. If you know what I mean."

"Then why'd you tell me-"

"'Cause I was jealous!" Kick said, cupping Gunther's cheeks. "You knew that. I was lying to you, because. Because I was scared." He let go of Gunther and sat back, letting that sink in. Gunther had always loved him because he wasn't afraid of anything, and it was a cruel joke that Gunther was the one thing that terrified him. Gunther slipped his arm around Kick and drew him close again, back down against the pillows.

"I know," Gunther said.

"You know?"

"Yeah, Kick. You're not that good at hiding what you're feeling. Not from me, anyway. I mostly got mad at you because you were being so stubborn, and I felt bad, too, because I shouldn't have tried to pressure you to tell people about us just because I was feeling insecure." Gunther took a deep breath, and when he let it out Kick felt like it was sinking into him, all of Gunther unknotted tension.

"I'm an asshole, though," Kick said.

"Yeah, sometimes," Gunther said, and Kick grinned. "But I found this corner where you didn't feel comfortable and backed you right into it. Then, oh, God, Kick, I was so mad at you, but when they shipped you off to juvey for three whole months, it was like torture. I should have let you explain-"

"The only thing I wanted to explain was that I know I acted like an idiot, and I'll do anything you want," Kick said. He couldn't believe how easy this felt, like sailing through a perfectly executed jump, nothing left to do but land, washed in sunlight and warm against Gunther's side. "Anything, God, I should be so lucky to take you to prom-"

"I don't really want to go to prom, Kick," Gunther said, rolling his eyes. "I mean, I wouldn't turn it down, but that's not the issue."

"I know, I was a jerk, I was insensitive, I was defensive and-"

"Well, _yeah_, but the real issue? It's dumb, you'll laugh, but do you remember in gym class, back in middle school, when we had to have dance partners?"

"Uh?" Kick wracked his brain. "Oh – um, yeah. Me and Kendall won, right?"

"Yeah, you won," Gunther said, sitting up. "And you were awesome together, and she wore a freaking Viking helmet, Kick! I was so jealous, and next year you started kissing her after school, and I told myself I'd just have to live with it, that it would never be me. I couldn't believe it when you kissed me, that day when you were sick. I thought maybe you were just feverish, delirious or something, and then every time afterward, it always felt like a dream, like something that was almost happening against your will. I guess I'm just especially sensitive about, um, not being the one who's allowed to dance with you."

"I still hate dancing," Kick said, sliding his arm around Gunther's massive shoulders. "But I will dance with you in front of the whole damn school in a tutu if that's what you want."

"Of course that's not what I want!"

"I know, that's not what I'm saying -ah." Kick climbed into Gunther's lap, took Gunther's hands and brought them to his hips. Gunther's cheeks turned pink, and Kick kissed one, then the other. "It was like a dream to me, too," he said. "And then, when I was away from you – everything's just been a goddamn nightmare since I lost you."

"Kick," Gunther said. He pressed his face to Kick's and let him look all the way into his eyes, at the twelve different shades of blue, overlapping between flecks of gold. "You didn't lose me."

"Can I kiss you?" Kick asked, his lips already lowered over Gunther's, their breath mixing together. Gunther huffed and nodded.

"Yeah, Kick," he said, his eyes falling shut. "Yeah."

It was like being able to exist outside of time, skipping out on school and far away from family drama, kissing Gunther until they were both sweating a little, helping each other out of their clothes. Kick had been naked in front of Gunther before, but not since they were kids, and he reached for his helmet, which was still sitting on the bedside table. He put it on and sat Indian-style on Gunther's pillow, blushing as Gunther took him in.

"Don't look at me like I'm a pile of hot wings," Kick said, crossing his arms over his chest. Gunther's grin came slowly, his eyes still bouncing around Kick's body like pin balls, like he couldn't decide what he wanted to look at most.

"I can't help it," Gunther said, crawling over to kiss his nose. "You make my stomach growl."

"Since when is it flat?" Kick asked, running his hand down to touch it. "Not that I'm complaining."

"It's not flat," Gunther said. "It still jiggles. I was so miserable with you, I didn't really have an appetite. Not my usual one, anyway. Plus, they worked the heck out of us at practice this summer."

"You're gonna miss your big game," Kick said. "It's my fault."

"I'm pretty sure it's gonna be worth it," Gunther said. He was naked, too, blushing, too, and he seemed like he wasn't sure what to do with his hands, where to start. Kick slid down underneath him, onto his back, smiling the way he always did when he had an idea for a new stunt.

"Will you coordinate if I give you the basic idea?" Kick asked. "Like old times?"

"Like – uh, yeah, yeah, I will," Gunther said. His face was bright red as he settled down onto Kick, both of them sucking their breath in when they pressed together, ankle to shoulder. Gunther was heavy, but Kick fought his way up onto his elbows and put his lips against Gunther's ear. He told him what he wanted to do in two breathy words, and Gunther moaned, his eyes falling shut.

"I duh – don't know if that's-s_ssah_, such a good idea, Kick."

"Trust me," Kick said, licking Gunther's ear, his hand worming down between them until Gunther gasped. "It is."

It was like their best stunts always were, exhilarating and effortless once they'd worked out the angles, Kick pushing his body to the brink and Gunther holding on tight, keeping him from falling too far. Gunther was bleary-eyed and astonished, staring up at Kick like he was a shadow passing over the sun, and when Kick needed to be caught, Gunther was there, his fingers digging in between Kick's ribs. Kick was liquefied by how good it felt, better than he'd dared to imagine, all the addictive adrenaline of a record-breaking, once in a lifetime stunt, and after he'd crashed Gunther hovered over him, kissing his panting mouth, his hand pressed over Kick's heart. They peered at each other almost nervously, eyelids heavy, and Kick laughed first, giddy and delirious, feeling like he'd just cheated death. Gunther laughed in a huff and licked sweat from Kick's temple.

"Are you okay?" Gunther asked, whispering, like the thing they just did was in the room with them, some danger lingering.

"Yeah," Kick said. "Are you?"

"Fuck, Kick," Gunther said, and Kick laughed, because Gunther almost never cursed. "Yeah, I'm, um, I'm definitely okay. You're not sore or anything?"

"A little," Kick said. He flexed, stretching his arms up over his head. "But it's the good kind of sore. Definitely the good kind."

"You're such a masochist," Gunther said, softly, like this was an endearment.

"Yeah, lucky you," Kick said. He flexed again, watching the way Gunther's pupils fattened, his lips parting. "That means you can do whatever you want to me."

"All I want to do is take care of you," Gunther said, shaking his head and pinning Kick's hands to the mattress.

"Yeah, I know," Kick said. He leaned up to pull Gunther's bottom lip between his teeth. "And this is a whole new way you can do it. Do it again, okay? And again, and again, and just, God, until I can't even walk-"

"Kick, you're crazy," Gunther said, groaning, but he still had Kick's hands pinned, and his mouth was wet when Kick kissed him, Kick's legs coming up to wrap around Gunther's back. "There is such a thing as too much of a good thing, you know," Gunther said, whispering this against Kick's mouth. Kick shook his head.

"Not this," he said. "I'm never gonna get enough of this."

"Kick – ah – Jesus – just be still for a second." Gunther pulled back to give him a worried look. "Don't you need to call home or anything? Do your parents even know you're here?"

"They don't care," Kick said. He wanted nothing less than to talk about them right now. "I'm like a wild animal that's been tearing up their house. They're probably just relieved that I finally got loose."

"Don't be ridiculous," Gunther said. "What if your mom came looking for you this morning and saw that you were gone?"

"She'd just assume I left for school early," Kick said, getting annoyed. "Trust me, it's fine. My cell phone's in my pants pocket. Check it if you want. I bet she hasn't even called."

Kick rolled his eyes when Gunther actually went searching for his pants, flicking through the mess of clothing that they'd thrown onto the floor until he found them. He dug into the pockets until he found Kick's phone, and raised his eyebrows when he saw the screen.

"What?" Kick asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You were right, your parents haven't called," Gunther said. "But someone else has, about eight thousand times."

"Brianna?" Kick asked, sitting up fast, feeling terrible. Gunther shook his head and showed Kick the phone.

"Jacky," he said.

"Oh, Christ," Kick said. He took the phone and threw it back onto the floor. "She's probably wondering why I'm not at school. I'm supposed to do that stunt tonight."

"What stunt?" Gunther asked. Kick sighed and lay down again, tipping his knees open, hoping his nakedness would be distracting, but Gunther was still frowning, waiting for an answer.

"My homecoming stunt," Kick said.

"Which is what?" Gunther asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Um, this thing she came up with. It'd be pretty cool if I could pull it off. It involves her mom's boyfriend's motorcycle, and, uh. The football field."

"Kick-"

"I know, I know! I'm not supposed to do any stunts, I'll get arrested, they'll send me to real prison, I know. It's just – Gunther, I feel like myself again. And I want to fly, for real, I want to hear everybody cheer when I make it through the goal posts."

"You aren't seriously considering this, are you?" Gunther asked, looking stricken. Kick groaned and pulled the blankets up over himself.

"I was," he said. "Before this morning. Before last night."

"What, as some way to get back at me?" Gunther asked, scowling. "By getting yourself arrested? Or, God – Jacky doesn't know anything about engineering, she can't build a ramp that wouldn't kill you-"

"I didn't want to get back at you," Kick said, pulling Gunther down to him, under the blanket. "I just wanted to get you back."

"Kick, you always had me," Gunther said. He moaned and rolled Kick into his arms, setting off a spine-length row of prepare-for-launch sensors when his leg slid up between Kick's. "Always, and you always will. But you know you can't do this, right? I can't lose you again, I can't watch them put you in real jail, oh, God-"

"Shh, I won't," Kick said. He pet Gunther's hair, wondering why he felt like he was lying to Gunther, like he was still going to do the stunt. He couldn't; of course Gunther was right, and he didn't want to go to jail, certainly didn't want to die at the hands of Jacky's sloppy engineering. Still, he couldn't stop thinking about the smell of motor oil burning out into the air behind him as he flew over the field, the crowd gasping, everyone below forgetting to breathe as they watched him fly.

He pushed away his thoughts of stunt-related glory and lost himself in what was going on under the blankets. Gunther was clinging to him like he'd never let him go, pushing his choppy breath into Kick's mouth when it opened for him. It was different the second time, no heated whispers or hesitation, and Gunther wouldn't let Kick take control, not that he tried very hard. Kick liked this, too, flopping back and going boneless, letting Gunther figure out all the twists and turns, just flying while Gunther held his arms against his sides. The growling noises Gunther made were like subtle warnings about what he was capable of, how hard he would fight to keep Kick safe if he had to. Kick's answering whimpers might have been interpreted as his consent to let Gunther take care of him, to hold him in place and make him fall apart until he was too tired to even open his eyes all the way, let alone move out of Gunther's grip. Gunther was soft with him afterward, mopping the sweat from his forehead and kissing him everywhere, worshipful.

"Are you okay?" Gunther asked, and Kick nodded, his eyes closed, sleep already closing over him. "Are you sure?" Gunther pulled one of Kick's eyes open gently. "You're kind of – convulsing."

"It's the good kind of convulsing," Kick said, his tongue heavy as aftershocks traveled down his legs and back up again. "Definitely the good kind." He pulled Gunther down to kiss him in demonstration, and curled up against Gunther as his arm wrapped around him.

"I feel like I should sing to you or something," Gunther said, petting Kick's back, his arm, his cheek.

"You always had a beautiful voice," Kick said, so tired that he wasn't even sure if he was joking or not. He fell asleep before Gunther could come up with anything to sing, or maybe he sang to Kick the whole time he rested. Kick was deep down in the dark of his dreams, and he couldn't hear anything, his body throbbing with exhaustion, clicked off, defenseless inside the warmth that had curled all around him. Even in the far away place where his sleep had taken him, Kick knew: that warm feeling was Gunther, and this was the one spot in the world where he could be too weak to move and still airborne, floating through the clouds.


End file.
